<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc by crushing83</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25072408">Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushing83/pseuds/crushing83'>crushing83</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ad Astra Per Aspera [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>17th Precinct AU, Bad Deaton, Beta Scott McCall, Changing Tenses, Derek is a Failwolf, Discussion of Mates, Flashbacks, Gen, Grudges, Immortality, Minor Character Death, Minor or background Relationships - Freeform, Misconceptions, Multi, Not Time Travel, Pre-Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Slash, Scott is a Bad Friend, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Some people live some people die, Spark Stiles, Stiles Has Powers, Stiles has a twin brother, Stiles is Jimmy Travers, Tattooed Stiles, Teen Wolf AU, The Magicians AU, Twin Stiles Stilinski, Unreliable Narrator, adjusting tags as i go, back and forth in time, because I wanted endgame Sterek but never got there, bringing a lot of magic users together, but it might not be what you think or assume, changing time tenses, even by the end of the story, hunters like to torture for information, magical crossovers, mentions of Cory Bryant, mentions of Mason Hewitt - Freeform, mentions of braeden, mild descriptions of torture, not a getting-together fic, picture them in their 30s, please read the tags, pre-Sterek - Freeform, relationships or potential relationships are not the priority of this story, shadowhunters au, slightly younger 17th Precinct characters, stiles is kicked out of the pack, this situation is a mess, vague torture scenes, will probably get a sequel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:46:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>100,971</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25072408</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushing83/pseuds/crushing83</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After graduation, the pack's betas told Stiles that he should leave Beacon Hills. Stiles finally realised that he would never fit in with them, even though his twin brother was a part of their ranks; the realisation stung after everything he'd done for them and everything that happened to him because of them. He decided to shut them out, too, and break all ties with Beacon Hills—except for the connection to his father. </p><p>He grew up and (thinks he has) moved on, but he never lets himself get too comfortable or too close to anyone. His magical gifts flourish; he learns how to put his abilities and mind to good use, often putting himself between hunters and supernaturals. He has an alias to further separate himself from his past. </p><p>It works. It works for years. Stiles is <i>fine.</i> </p><p>When he finally feels like he's found his place in the world, his past comes calling for him. And he realises he might be less fine and more of a work-in-progress. He'll get there.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Chris Argent/Melissa McCall, Derek Hale &amp; Stiles Stilinski, Ethan/Jackson Whittemore, Lydia Martin/Feliks Stilinski, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Margo Hanson &amp; Eliot Waugh, Scott McCall/Malia Tate, Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Wilder Blanks/Morgana Kurlansky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ad Astra Per Aspera [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828975</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1086</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1145</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm really not sure what this is, except for an excuse to try my hand at the "Stiles has a twin" and "Stiles is kicked out of the pack" tropes. I've written the whole rough draft for this story; as I edit and revise it, I will post the chapters. Don't worry about getting so far into this and then it being abandoned, because this story is complete. If there's any interest for more, I might do a sequel… but it wouldn't be for a while, with everything that's in my WIP folder. (Although, I can admit that two of the flashback scenes sent me to another text file to jot down notes for two more stories. I still don't know when I'll get there—or if there will be any interest.) </p><p>A/N: After posting a few chapters, I realise I might be too mean for some people. I'm not sure if this is a build-up of personal feelings, issues with forgiveness, or what. I'm sure some people will have a problem. I sort of have a problem! I love <i>some</i> of the other characters. I'm just... writing out some issues, I guess? </p><p>Title is from <i>The West Wing</i>—well, it's not <i>only</i> from TWW, but that's from where I know the saying. "After it, therefore because of it." President Bartlet says it's hardly ever true, and he might be right. But, it felt like it fit here, so I used it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>"Skinwalkers are powerful shapeshifters, and not particularly welcoming to strangers on their land…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles can hear Noshiko's words in his head as he drives his jeep to the end of the invisible path, his eyes scanning the sand and rocks for the beings he seeks. She'd tried to warn him off seeking them out the first time, waiting in the desert for him as if she knew he'd end up there; he couldn't be warned off easily, when the intention is to keep him from the resources he needs to protect someone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lilah, the werewolf next to him, has finally stopped vibrating with nerves. Unnatural stillness is almost worse, but after two days of driving and being forced to watch their backs, Stiles will embrace the eerie lack of movement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He parks; they wait. He knows Jedda won't make him wait too long. Colba would—because she likes to screw with Stiles on a level that Stiles finds completely unnecessary. But, Jedda… she's on his side as much as a Skinwalker can be. She wouldn't mess him around on this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The wind increases in speed and intensity. Stiles breathes a sigh of relief at almost the same time as Lilah starts whining anxiously. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the storm passes, Jedda is standing in front of the vehicle, her double-bladed staff in her hand. Stiles grins and waves at her. She smiles and nods her head in response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Let's go," Stiles says, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening his door. "You'll like it here." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lilah raises an eyebrow, but she follows his lead, meeting him in front of Jedda. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Another stray?" Jedda asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, I know," Stiles says. He sighs. "I couldn't… I couldn't leave her behind. The hunters—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Take off her binding and let her speak for herself, Traveller," Jedda interrupts. "I would prefer hearing the truth from her lips." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a nod, Stiles puts his hand on Lilah's arm, rubbing off the sigil he'd drawn there. The magic in the design had been meant to calm her and block her from the grief that turned her nearly feral. With it rubbed away, Lilah's quiet demeanor fades into a louder, growlier attitude. She tries to push him away, but Stiles is faster and he knocks her on her feet with a punch and a sweep of his leg through hers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We are not doing this again, Lilah," Stiles mutters. "I know it hurts. But, keep your shit together for a few minutes and answer her questions. Please." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lilah's eyes flash blue; apart from that, she remains unmoving, slowly relaxing her stance from one of aggression to one of tension. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What happened, Lilah?" Jedda asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After swallowing, Lilah says, "Hunters came and slaughtered my family pack. I… I ripped them apart. More came." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jedda looks at Stiles. Apparently, it is time for him to fill in a few blanks. "I caught up to her before the second wave got in position," he adds. "I know what losing a pack can do. It's her grief—not her. And those hunters… they've done worse. I've been tracking their damage for a while." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a nod, Jedda accepts his words and dismisses him. He doesn't need to hear the next bit of the conversation—</span>
  <em>
    <span>if you decide to meet the challenge, you could win one of two prizes, blah blah, join our ranks or die, blah, blah</span>
  </em>
  <span>—because he'd heard it with Jay, Suki, and Cherry. He backs up, moving to the driver's side of his vehicle and leaning against its navy blue exterior. Taking the time to check his text messages, he sees one from Mira and two from Caolán, nothing that needs an immediate response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, since he has a few minutes… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To Mira's </span>
  <em>
    <span>The ink is ready and will be for five days</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he sends back </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm almost finished at Shiprock. I'll head to Excelsior next.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To Caolán's </span>
  <em>
    <span>Where are you?</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>You're okay, right? I have a weird feeling…</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he taps out </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dude, I'm fine. I'm at Shiprock. Just finishing up. Will be in town soon… you can watch over me all you'd like.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He locks his phone and pockets the device in time to see Lilah running off, disappearing into the brush and rock and sand. Jedda is smiling, her free hand on her hip. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We will give chase shortly," she says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Thank you, Jedda." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods. "You know, you could join us," she suggests. "You're not the first male we've invited…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles reins in his snort. He wouldn't last two minutes in a fight with the Skinwalkers, and they all know it—there is no need to prove that theory. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I appreciate the invitation, Jedda," he replies, smiling at her. "Fighting isn't my style. I like my job… trying to protect and keep the peace." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You do very well in your vocation," she murmurs. She steps closer and puts her hand on his shoulder. "You are still unbalanced, though, and maybe sparring with us would help you find the area within yourself that needs protecting." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It would probably help him die more quickly, but he doesn't need to say that out loud. He also already knows where he is weakest—in his heart—and he already has a guide who points out that he needs better balance in his life. He's strong, and he can usually protect himself as he does his job, but facing off against Jedda and her clan is an unnecessary danger. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Maybe another time," he says. "I need to get to Excelsior." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jedda squeezes his arm as she smiles. "Thank Morgana for me, will you?" she asks. "She helped someone pass on last month." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles knows better than to ask if the person was family, because the Skinwalkers are apart from the world instead of a part of it. They're supposed to abandon the ties to their lives before their ascendence. Kira hadn't; he'd assumed she is an exception until he started interacting with the clans more regularly. They all have little connections; they all keep secrets, and they all know they have these secrets. Stiles figures the attachments are anchors, but he never asks for specifics. He respects their privacy, not asking details unless he is invited to ask for more information. Everyone has secrets; it's unfair to expect everyone to share their secrets. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I will," he promises. "You'll take care of Lilah?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Of course," Jedda says as she releases her hold on him. "Drive safe, Traveller." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smiles at her, nods, and pushes himself off of his jeep's door. His job is finished; he got the werewolf to the Skinwalkers for training and protection and hopefully she'll join their ranks and embrace their mission. Another soul has been saved from hunters who can't tell the difference from right and wrong. It's time for him to leave Shiprock and recharge before his next job.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Where are you going?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles paused in tugging on his hooded sweatshirt to look at Feliks, Danny, and Jackson. They were playing video games in the middle of what looked like the aftermath of a tornado, considering the cushions, soda cans, and popcorn pieces strewn over most surfaces. He'd cleaned the living room two days ago; it was already a mess again. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He bit back the sigh and reprimand—because Feliks </span>
  </em>
  <span>never</span>
  <em>
    <span> listened to him. Instead, he said, "M'going to Scott's." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You dorks have fun being boring," Jackson muttered under his breath, oblivious to Danny rolling his eyes. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks nudged Jackson with his elbow before focusing again on Stiles. "Leave Scott alone," he said. "He wants to make first line this year." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles frowned. "And what? I'm holding him back with my suckage?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Hey, maybe that's it…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks ignored Jackson's muttered comment. He shrugged. "No, but a good night's sleep would help him more than anything you two will get up tonight," he explained. He shrugged again. "Maybe you'd do better at try-outs, too, if you stayed in and rested up for tomorrow." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Maybe I don't want to be first line," Stiles said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Everyone wants to be first line," Jackson said, snorting and shaking his head as if he couldn't believe Stiles didn't want to be good at lacrosse. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Lacrosse was Feliks' thing, Scott's thing, Jackson's thing… hell, it was Danny's thing, too. Stiles couldn't care less about the sport; he only started playing because his dad had encouraged (pressured) him to join the team. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Seriously? How are you two twins? You're nothing alike." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Danny rolled his eyes. "They're not clones, Jax," he said. "They're allowed to like different things." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles would have smiled at Danny for that, but they were distracted and he saw a chance to escape. He and Scott were going to go find a dead body! </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before arriving at his final destination, Stiles decides to pull into a truck stop so he can shower and change his clothes. Lilah had been near feral, even with his magic written on her skin, so stopping for the night hadn't seemed like a great idea; his clothes are damp, dirty, and sour, thanks to sweat from the journey, and he wants to wash Shiprock's sand from every crack and crevice in his body.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He buys a bottle of water and meanders to the back of the rest station, where the full bathrooms are located. He can smell burgers and fries coming from the built-in restaurant; a big meal isn't in his plan, but with the way his stomach grumbles, he thinks he might have to change that plan. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's not until the bathroom door is locked—in both mundane and magical ways—that Stiles feels comfortable enough to start undressing. Once his knives and their sheaths are removed and placed on the counter, he peels out of his grubby clothes. He has one clean t-shirt left, and his second pair of jeans have a little mistletoe jelly crusted on one of the legs (but that's better than sand, so he'll wear them). He really hopes someone in Excelsior will let him do a load of laundry; he doesn't want to waste a day hanging around a public laundromat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smoothes his hands over his arms, legs, neck, and back, looking for wounds. His right shoulder hurts from being slammed into a tree trunk, but there is no external wound. His knuckles are a little scraped; they're always a little scraped. The tattoos all over his body hide most of his older scars and fresher bruises. An ice pack for his bum knee wouldn't be unappreciated, but there isn't anything that needs immediate medical attention. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sends a text to John—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Still alive. Pro bono gig finished. Heading to X and then the apartment, so no work for a few days. Love you. Hope you're okay.</span>
  </em>
  <span>—before he hops into the shower. Staying in contact was their deal when he left school to start looking for people to train him in magic; it became a tradition, something to make sure he doesn't lose complete contact with his family. His brother isn't an option, after everything, but John is as neutral as he can be between his twin sons. Stiles never doubts that his father loves him, in his way; he may doubt that Feliks cares about him, at all, but he never has doubts about John. The man does the best he can with the situation he'd been given. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scrubs with his scent-free soap, using his short nails to scratch over his head and through his hair and anywhere else he itches. He scrubs until his skin tingles. It's not a nap or exercise, but it's a little invigorating. Hopefully, between a thorough cleanse and a tasty meal, he'll wake up enough to finish the drive. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To the mundane world, Excelsior is a neighbourhood in San Francisco. To the supernatural world, it is still that—but it's also a lot more. Magic users have built a sort of secret world in and around and behind a few city blocks. According to Mira, the neighbourhood had been larger, stretching as far as Hunter's Point; then, a group of hunters settled there, and the magic users pulled back until they were in a more protected and defensible location. In the following years, the community became a sort of safe haven—neutral territory enforced by sanctuary spells, as well as a sort of magical guard that keeps watch in teams around the area—and a place for learning and living. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles doesn't live there. It might be easy to settle, to put down roots, but that would mean a permanent address, utility bills, and routines. He can be found if he settles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He isn't an idiot. He knows the pack never looked for him. They were the ones that pushed him to leave Beacon Hills. If it weren't for Feliks, the pack would surely think he's dead—but Feliks </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> in their ranks, so they probably all know he's alive and out there somewhere. They don't care. But, in case they (or any of his enemies) ever do decide to find him, he keeps moving because he doesn't want that reunion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Also, Excelsior is a little too close to Beacon Hills for his liking. He doesn't think any of the pack would venture into the neighbourhood, if they were in the city for school or shopping, but he also doesn't want to risk it. That bridge is burned to a crisp; he wants to avoid any awkward encounters. He moves all around the country, choosing (hopefully furnished) sublets as he moves from town to town, because there's always someone looking for another someone to finish out their lease. It lets him stay under the radar—keeping </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles</span>
  </em>
  <span> off of the werewolves' radar, as well as keeping someone from tracking down his new identity—and it lets him travel around the continent to help protect the people and beings who needed protection. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are times when he'd like to put down roots… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, then, he remembers that he had roots, and they were pulled up without his permission. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He made it work. He continues to make it work. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Screw them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles tips his head forward as the hot water rains down on his neck and back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows Beacon Hills is a part of the lack of balance Mira keeps suggesting he fix. His dad still lives there and still works there (even though Stiles has begged him to retire almost every year since he left school on his journey of magical discovery); his brother is a part of the local pack. He can't move past Beacon Hills because a part of his life is still there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a sigh, Stiles turns off the water and steps out of the shower. His flip flops leave wet splotches all over the floor, with every step he takes, but he doesn't care. He'll clean the room of any trace of him—wet shoe prints included. He knows all too well how even a stray hair can be used against someone in a spell; he won't let that happen to him because he's too lazy to be bothered to tidy up after himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A reply from John—</span>
  <em>
    <span>just heading into work. glad you're okay. where to next? love you.</span>
  </em>
  <span>—is waiting for him when he pauses at the counter, wrapping his towel around his waist. He smiles, tracing over the message on the screen with one damp fingertip. He can imagine his father, in his uniform and with his morning coffee; he can imagine him leaving the house and he hopes his footfalls are light and unburdened. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not sure yet. Eat a salad for lunch, ok? ;) &lt;3</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Text message sent back, Stiles focuses on dressing and preparing to get back on the road. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>With Scott's surprising and uncharacteristically murderous impulses under control again, thanks to Derek, he went off in search of Allison—proving the point Stiles tried to make before Scott lost control. He hadn't seemed too concerned about the bruises and scratches on Stiles' body; he hadn't even asked if Stiles were hurt before running off to be with his One True Love. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles closed his eyes, pressing his hand into the scrape over his collarbone. He didn't know why he was surprised; as soon as Allison started paying attention to him, Scott's priorities completely shifted, even more than they had in relation to his being bitten. Whatever Stiles needed stopped mattering, because Scott was a werewolf, he was on first line with Jackson and Feliks, he had a girlfriend, and his life was awesome. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Ugh," he groaned, trying to force himself onto another line of thought. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He rubbed his nose against his shoulder before looking up into Derek's face—but Derek was crouched in front of him with a wet cloth in his hands and he had to adjust his head's aim. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Let's clean you up," Derek said, easing Stiles' hand down from his injury. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I can—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek interrupted, his voice still quiet. "It's okay. I don't mind." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I can do it," he insisted. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After a slow nod, Derek said, "You don't have to, okay?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles nodded, too, and Derek took that as permission to inspect the wound. It stung, but Stiles could feel his fingers and he didn't feel any worse than he would after Jackson shoved him into a set of lockers, so he figured it wasn't too bad. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek confirmed that. "Looks like he only got you a little. Peroxide in the bathroom?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Uh… yeah. In the cupboard under the sink," Stiles replied. "Bandages are in the second drawer." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He patted Stiles' knee once (and very awkwardly) before disappearing into the other room. Stiles closed his eyes again, trying to block out the thoughts that tormented him every time Derek was too close. His fear and arousal processes must have been mixed up somewhere; it was the only way to explain what he felt whenever Derek crossed his radar. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When Derek reappeared, with a pile of first aid supplies, Stiles resigned himself to being fussed over like a child would be. Derek didn't scold him, though, much to Stiles' surprise; instead, he worked quietly and carefully, to patch up Stiles' nicks and scratches. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Do you have a hot water bottle?" Derek asked.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"A magic bag, I think." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek gestured to his door. "Kitchen?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yes… why?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek touched his shirt, over his chest. "You got thumped pretty hard. Scott wasn't thinking clearly," he said. "Heat would help with healing, right?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It didn't make sense. Stiles wasn't </span>
  </em>
  <span>other,</span>
  <em>
    <span> he didn't deserve Derek's protection—and Derek made that point clearly on his own, shoving him into walls and threatening the state of his throat. But, he couldn't push Derek away on those grounds; it had been a while since someone willingly took care of him and he was just selfish enough to hang onto that for a few more minutes. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>His current apartment is in Baker City, Oregon—he couldn't resist proximity to the actual Oregon Trail when it became available, okay?—but he isn't going to return there for another few days. A detour to Excelsior is first on his schedule; at the end of his drive, already inside of San Francisco's city limits, he still can't decide if the detour is a good or bad thing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's a good thing when he walks into his favourite bar and realises he doesn't have to hide (most of) who he is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's a (slightly) bad thing when he sees Morgana, Wilder, Liam, and Magnus sitting in the booth Stiles had been hoping to use as a hiding place—and looking like they're well on their way to starting a party. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morgana grins, her smile wide and so toothy that it almost seems predatory. In contrast, Wilder bows his head slightly as he salutes Stiles with his glass of what is probably bourbon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam gives him a nod, too. Where Wilder's nod is practically a hug (because the man is not demonstrative </span>
  <em>
    <span>at all),</span>
  </em>
  <span> Liam's nod is a display of his reserve. They don't know each other very well and he keeps to himself; Stiles understands that all too well and figures, if they're meant to be friends, they'll get there in their own time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The magic user—or warlock, as he prefers to be called—stands up and struts across the floor, a smirk curving his lips. Stiles braces himself against what he is sure will be an attempt to get swept up into the party mood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Darling… you've returned to us," he purrs. "Finally. Things were getting dull without you here." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. "Better not let Alec hear you say that," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus' smirk sharpens as he closes the gap between them. He pulls Stiles into a hug, snuggling him close; the contact with another magic user is grounding and stabilising, and Stiles can feel his body relax. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You are on our </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> short list," Magnus whispers in his ear. "Just say the word and we'll treat you amazingly well. You haven't known satisfaction until you've lain with us." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles knows he's blushing, but he doesn't care. No one can see his complexion change in the dimly lit bar—and Magnus is only saying those things to get a reaction out of him, anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus pulls back and studies him. "Or, perhaps, you'd just like to sleep between us," he says. He frowns a little. "You look exhausted, James. What was it this time?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hunters killing targeting a pack, then hunters versus grieving werewolf," Stiles replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Your usual, then." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. "Yep." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, let's get you a drink," Magnus says. "The fierce and fabulous Jimmy Travers has returned to Excelsior, and I declare we celebrate!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And celebrate, they did. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At first, it is just the five of them, but then Caolán and Jeff arrive, and Mira appears an hour after they'd settled in with their second rounds. Drinks and food cover the two booths they commandeered; Stiles gorges himself on wings and fries and soda until he feels warm and heavy, and until the smile on his face feels more real than false. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán puts his spare key in Stiles' palm when Margo and Eliot arrive. Stiles laughs softly; he adores the twosome as much as he does any of the others who have befriended him in Excelsior, but they are over-the-top exuberant when they're in the mood to party and he isn't sure he's in the mood for that level of excitement after his week on the road. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I made up the guest room," Caolán says. "Make yourself at home." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mira puts her hand on the table between them. "How long are you staying?" she asks. "Will you have time to stop by the Institute before you disappear again?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Ink Institute is Magnus' Alec's business. There are plenty of tattoo parlors in San Francisco, but any magic user who relies on tattoos to bolster or focus their powers knows that Alec and his business partner, Clary, are the best in the region—if not the continent. All of Stiles' tattoos, except for the first one, done long before he stumbled into Excelsior, are Alec's work. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. "I'm here to catch up, find my next job, and get inked." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After an assessing look, Mira smiles. "Tomorrow morning then," she decides. "I'll tell Alec it's for sure. He already booked the chair for you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Good… thanks," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's been itching to get an animal guardian tattoo—something he hopes will help him in his work—for a while now. It will either be that or another set of protection runes designed into a sigil of some sort. Mira knows about his goals and aims; she always has a plan. As his most recent, and favourite, teacher, he trusts that her plan will bring him closer to his goals even if he can't see how everything falls in line on his first attempt to try to make sense of her advice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I need to stock up on supplies, too," Stiles adds. "Running low on mistletoe and powdered rowan." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wolfsbane, too?" Mira asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, I still have a little of every variety," he replies. "I'm good there. It's the trapping that uses a lot of resources." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods. "We can stop by the shop after you're done—if you're not too buzzed." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles laughs at that. The last time Mira joined him for an inking session, he'd had the design for focus over his spine added to his collection. He'd left the shop a little high from the experience, the pain and power combining to give him an intoxicating rush, and Mira and Wilder had a rough time trying to take care of him. To repay him, they'd recorded video of his most interesting antics and threatened to share the videos with some of the other people in their group. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He learned to at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span> to behave. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán taps the table. "I might have something—a job," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh yeah?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not werewolves," he adds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't discriminate." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Neither do these guys," Caolán says. "Hunters. They killed a coven in Northern Mexico—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That's </span>
  <span>Calaveras</span>
  <span> territory," Stiles interrupts. "There are treaties with them, too." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán nods. "I know. They actually contacted Jeff through one of his regular clients. These guys… there was a lot of carnage and a lot of attention. Which is why the hunters reached out—they want to avoid retributions. We don't know anything about the people who attacked the coven," he says. "I tried to track them, but it didn't work. I think I was more worried about you than the hunters because the spell landed on an area twenty miles outside of Shiprock." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Maybe they were after me, too," Stiles suggests. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You have anti-tracking sigils on your car, still, right?" Caolán asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah… but, they could have a magic user, too, or maybe that's why they went after the coven," Stiles reasons. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Through narrowed eyes, Mira asks, "Did you notice anyone following you?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shakes his head. "No… the trip here was uneventful." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It was probably my spell," Caolán admits. "I've been off lately." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's been pining," Mira says, a little teasingly. "Suze is still visiting her family in Maine." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smiles and leans into Caolán's side. "The heart wants what it wants," he says, remembering his own pangs and pains in that department. "She's the one, huh?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán's ears turn pink. "I… maybe? I don't know. I just feel funny when she's not here." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well. The spirit animal spell and ink will give you another way to help protect yourself and do your work," Mira says, moving past Caolán's love life. There isn't much she and Stiles can do about that; Caolán needs to settle his mind and heart and learn how to continue to ground himself in the face of his feelings. "If you don't mind Clary working on you at the same time—if Alec doesn't have the time to spare—she could put another stealth symbol on you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bringing his hand up to his neck, where Alec's concealment sigil was embedded in his skin, Stiles shrugs. "This one works," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Humour me. Maybe something for sound and smell so you're not reliant on other spells and potions." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles frowns, looking from Caolán to Mira. "Are you seriously worried?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I've been worrying about you since you showed up in Excelsior that first time," Mira admits, her nose wrinkling as she smiles. "Your red hoodie in tatters, baseball bat in one hand, and some sort of towel in your other, pressed into your side—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I just saved the day—and Eliot, if I remember correctly," Stiles mutters, a smile shining through his grumpy face. "And then I got shouted at by Magnus, Alec, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> Margo. What a scene." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It was a memorable introduction," Caolán says, chuckling a little. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks out over the bar's dancefloor, where Eliot, Margo, and Magnus are dancing in the middle of a crowd made up of both mundanes and magic users. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves; he is both happy for them and jealous of them. He doesn't remember ever fitting in with a group of people. He'd had Scott, at one point, before werewolves and the supernatural, but he'd never felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>at ease</span>
  </em>
  <span> with Scott in the way he sees these people let go of their defences and just be who they are. He admires them for being able to show their authentic selves and to accept each other with open arms and hearts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Time to go?" Mira asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sighs. "Yeah… it's been a long few days," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods. "The days will continue to be long if you keep up all the walls between the facets of </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh, geez, here we go," Caolán mutters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sniggers and nudges one of Caolán's knees with one of his. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mira levels a glare at both of them, so stern that it could quell even the most unruly schoolboy. Caolán tries and almost succeeds in stifling his humour, but Stiles' sense of self-preservation has never been particularly strong and he keeps laughing—spurning Caolán into a few more little laughs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You are out of balance, and I know you think it's a joke—both of you—but you could really do with some soul-searching and some issue resolution," Mira says. "You're strong—again, both of you—but until you get to the heart of your issues, you'll have trouble with consistency and balance." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know what my problems are, and there's no way to resolve them," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán frowns. "And I'm still taking those meditation classes," he admits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You should take James with you—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey!" Stiles squawked. "I already said I know what my problems are." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smiles a little. "Maybe sitting quietly would help you work out a way to fix them." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head. "No… no. Sitting quietly is a disaster." He raises his hands, letting them tremble. "Idle hands, and all that…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mira snorts. "James. You need to do something." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm not going to go ho—there," he says, frowning at his glass of soda as if it were responsible for him almost sharing all of his secrets. "What happened can't be resolved to my liking." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's not about being resolved to your liking," she insists. "It's about a resolution, period. You can learn to make peace and move on from that—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"There was a resolution," Stiles insists, remembering how Feliks and Scott looked at him before he turned and walked away from the pack. He winces, steals Caolán's beer, and takes a long pull from the bottle. After swallowing, he says, "And I've made my peace with it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán's forehead crinkles. "Then, why is your aura all…" he trails off as he waves his hand around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wishy-washy?" Stiles asks in a more light and playful tone of voice. "I have a wishy-washy aura? Uh oh. That can't be good." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán rolls his eyes. "Not 'wishy-washy,'" he says, a hint of laughter in his voice. "But, there are gaps, where it's faded a little?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Humour leeches from Stiles' face as he processes Caolán's words. "Gaps? That sounds bad," he says. "Why didn't you tell me I'm broken?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're not </span>
  <em>
    <span>broken</span>
  </em>
  <span>," Caolán assures him. "Overall, your aura's bright. The colours are dark, but you're bright. There are just places… where it's a little translucent, when I try to look closely. I don't know enough about auras to know what it means." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sounds like something's missing," Mira comments. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sighs. Of course, Feliks and the pack would be responsible for holes in his aura. That is just his luck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles hung his head into his gym locker and tried to remember to breathe. The smell of his locker wasn't ideal—but it was strong enough to chase the memory of the whisky's scent from his mind, and that helped keep the need to heave at bay. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck Feliks and his need to know things that weren't his to know. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He was smart enough to figure out that he and Scott had some sort of secret. It wasn't like Stiles was particularly adept at subterfuge—he would have to get better at that, going forward—and Feliks knew the signs of lying on his own face well enough to recognise them on Stiles' face. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What appeared to be a brotherly bonding moment over a pilfered bottle of booze was really an interrogation. Stiles held his own, mostly by holding his jaw so tightly shut that his muscles clenched and cramped, and he silently swore he'd never forgive Feliks for getting him drunk and then asking him all sorts of questions as he tried to zero in on whatever had Scott's and Stiles' attention. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You good?" Scott asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles glared at him. "My brother got me stupid drunk and then proceeded to interrogate me to figure out your secret." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott's eyebrows slanted up, furrowing a little in the middle. "I… really? Maybe he's just trying to bro bond?" he suggested. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You weren't there." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Were you? I mean… you're pretty hungover," Scott commented. He wrinkled his nose. "You reek." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Thanks." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>With a groan, Stiles moved enough to catch the back of his shirt in his hand. He tugged and pulled it over his head—and then frowned as Scott smothered a little laugh. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"There's a… well, Feliks…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Before Scott could explain </span>
  </em>
  <span>at all</span>
  <em>
    <span>, Jackson laughed and kicked Stiles in the back of his right knee. Stiles flailed, missed the locker door, and fell in a limp slump onto the floor. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Get some last night, Bilinski?" Jackson asked. "Seems like you did it wrong." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles frowned. But, he didn't protest when Danny pushed Scott aside and helped him rise to his feet. He caught the look Danny levelled at Jackson; he caught the way Jackson crumbled and turned away from them. He didn't understand and he understood even less when Danny guided him towards the other side of the locker room. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"C'mon," Danny said. "I think Feliks was having a bit of fun. I have some nail polish remover and we can take that off, no problem. Sadly, there's no cure for Jackson." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles snorted, rubbing a hand over his face, and faced reality. "You don't have to apologise for him. I know he's your best friend," he muttered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"He should know better. I've told him before," Danny said. "Besides, you're my team mate, too." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What did he draw on me?" Stiles asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Danny grimaced. "A pretty terrible rendition of what I </span>
  </em>
  <span>think</span>
  <em>
    <span> is a dick?" he replied. "Your brother clearly doesn't have a good understanding of his own anatomy… it could be some sort of space alien, I guess. But the balls are a big giveaway."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Well. Guess he can scratch 'artist' off his list of many, many career prospects," Stiles said, trying to make light of a weird and upsetting situation. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Before he pulled the solvent and tissues out of his locker, Danny offered him a small smile in response. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>##### </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Almost done the stealth runes," Alec says. Each word brushes his bare skin, teasing his belly as Alec puts his work on his side. "Do you want to see Clary's animal designs? I have more than enough time today to do it." </span>
</p>
<p><span>Stiles closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe as he thinks about the rune work and what it represents. He thinks words like </span><em><span>deflect, disappear </span></em><span>and </span><em><span>disguise</span></em> <span>as Alec's needles pierce and colour his flesh; he feels the magic in the ink swirling with his own abilities and he is certain that it's working, despite the distraction of Alec's proximity and the memory of Magnus' words. </span></p>
<p>
  <span>"Focus, James." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Trying," Stiles croaks. "And yes, if there's time. Should do it today. Don't know when I'll be back again." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alec sighs. "That's a shame. Magnus is hosting one of his parties next week. I was hoping for some company." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles opens one eye to peer at Alec through his lashes. "Like Magnus will let you out of his sight—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That's the plan," Alec interrupts, smirking up at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He groans and turns his head away from the sight. "You two are determined to kill me," he mutters. "Why?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Maybe, we just enjoy taking care of the people we care about—in whatever way we think they need," Alec murmurs as he returns his focus to his work. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And you think I need a serious dose of sexing up?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alec shakes his head. "No, we think you need comfort and physical closeness," he says in a soft voice. "Think about it, okay? No one needs to know you're human, if that's what you're worried about. Even if you just need a place to hide and regroup, our door is always open to you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. It's the best offer he's received in a very long time, and he knows he'd be a fool to turn it down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With another smile, Alec smooths his gloved hand over his work. "Now, focus. I'm about to start the binding on the runes," he instructs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes, sir," Stiles mutters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Alec quietly grunts, Stiles smirks to himself and closes his eyes as he steels himself to focus on directing his will into Alec's work. He knows how to be quick and stealthy, especially with the use of magic, but there is more to stealth magic than that; he's still human, with squishy human parts, and he's aiming to keep his inside his body for as long as possible. He already has a few tattoos storing magical strength for additional speed and for an illusion or glamour to help avoid detection. Alec and a few of the other guards around the neighbourhood wear the runes he is currently receiving to help make them more undetectable to threats to their community; Stiles would have gotten them sooner, if he hadn't been more concerned with focus and endurance and other qualities that have become useful in his line of work. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pictures situations where the runes could be helpful; he pictures how he wants his magic to work. He feeds bits of his strength and power into the wounds, letting the artwork absorb and contain it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Alec finishes, Stiles feels something </span>
  <em>
    <span>snap! </span>
  </em>
  <span>inside of him. Whether it's the completion of a circuit or the sealing of his magic, he isn't sure; he just knows that the intentions behind the tattoos have been set in his skin and will be solidified once the area has healed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How are you feeling?" Alec asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mmm… I'm fine." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alec smiles and passes him a bottle of water—carbonated, with a thin sheen of moisture along its glass surface. "Drink this. Relax," he advises. "I'm going to give it a moment while I go get Clary's design for the animal guardian tattoo. Then, we'll figure out where your animal will be located. Sound good?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles brings the water bottle's opening to his lips after a quick nod of approval. Alec pats and squeezes his knee before he gets up and walks towards the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mira usually stays with him, but Alec had said something to her and she told him she'd go stock up on supplies for him and be back later. As he groans and stretches out his legs, he realises it's probably for the best that he doesn't have an audience. Something about magical tattoos really gets his blood pumping. Alec usually ignores his body's reactions, but the offer he made… well, that hadn't been ignoring his physical response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He groans again as he thinks about Alec's offer. He's a red-blooded, pansexual man; he enjoys physical contact with people who pique his interest and Alec and Magnus are a very attractive couple who flirt or tempt him every chance they get. He might be trying to adhere to celibate practices to keep himself from being hurt, either physically or emotionally, but he is still a human who experiences physical and romantic attraction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he thinks about the people who have stolen places in his heart, he winces and closes his eyes. It is better—safer—for him if he keeps his feelings to himself, giving in to physical needs only when he absolutely has to and never with someone who knows him, but the idea of being with two people who know him (even if they don't know his actual name) sets his heart to aching. Even if they only share platonic intimacy, it would still be more than he's had in a long, long time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Alec comes back, with a few sheets of paper, Stiles forces his mind to the subject of his next magical tattoo. Clary's and Alec's work is exceptional, and it deserves his full attention. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay. She had a few different feelings when she was working on this for you," Alec says. He settles down on his stool and holds up the first piece of paper. "First, she had a vibe on the otter. It's known for faithfulness, friendliness, and being helpful to others—which lines up with what I know of you. And that could be helpful when doing complex magic." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. He likes the drawing of the river otter; he isn't sure how friendly he is, but it is a fierce little animal that resonates with him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I like it," he says. "What else?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alec holds up a fox. Before he could say anything, Stiles shakes his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, no foxes," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, Alec asks, "Really?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I was possessed by a nogitsune when I was a teenager," Stiles admits. "I don't want a magic fox." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alec's eyes widen. "Shit… Jimmy…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's fine. I'm mostly over it. I guess there's some sort of smudge left on my soul or aura or whatever… that must be what Clary picked up on," Stiles says as he rubs his hands over his bare arms and chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"She said it was for perception and cunning—which we both agree apply to you," Alec says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. "I'd rather not… I mean, it just reminds me…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I get it," Alec says. He pats Stiles knee, before leaving his hand there. "You don't need to explain it to me. I know things can go wrong. We all have bad experiences under our skin." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I didn't even know I could do magic when it happened," Stiles whispers. "He locked me in my mind and did horrible things." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alec's hand squeezes, but he doesn't say anything. Stiles isn't sure if there is anything anyone could say. He made peace with the damage he wrought, but the memories still hurt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay. No fox," Alec says. "What about a wolf?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles looks at the drawing of a solid dark wolf and a moon and clouds to hide the spellwork, and he sighs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Clary's perception is insane," Stiles mutters. "How does she know? </span>
  <em>
    <span>What</span>
  </em>
  <span> does she know about me?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, Alec looks from Stiles to the drawing and back to Stiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I used to be a part of a pack," Stiles says. "Before and after the possession thing. My best friend was bitten. Things… happened. I thought… I thought I could help. I tried. But, when I graduated from high school, they made it clear that I should leave." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is the most he has ever told anyone in Excelsior about his past. It feels safe, with Alec, in the small room with its closed door, and he trusts Alec to keep his secrets between them (and probably Magnus, who Stiles knows will understand his reasons for secrecy). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I figured you had some sort of connection to a werewolf," Alec says. "You always take on pack disputes or situations where hunters overstep. It made sense, y'know?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do they know what you do?" Alec asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I haven't talked to anyone from home except for my dad in years," Stiles replies. "I haven't been home since I left." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So, this is what Mira keeps talking about…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods again. "Probably. I'm all out of family balance." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alec looks at the drawings, back and forth from the otter to the wolf. The fox never makes another appearance, for which Stiles is grateful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"There's stuff about the wolf that vibes with you, too," Alec says in a quiet, contemplative voice. "Loyalty, quiet strength… perseverance…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How do we choose?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"She told me it would be a feeling," Alec says before snorting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>A feeling?!</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts, too, before he closes his eyes and rubs his hands over his face. "If I put a wolf on my body… it will be like I lost twice. Getting marked and shunned at the same time," he mutters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What if it's about the werewolves you've saved over the years?" Alec asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I… I didn't think of that," Stiles admits. "It could." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A bang on the door startles both of them. Stiles flinches; Alec yelps and jumps up, knocking over his stool in the process. They look at each other and laugh—with their experiences behind them, really, they should be braver than that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Alec opens the door, Clary bounces into the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're both idiots," she declares. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before she turns and leaves, she pushes a piece of paper into Alec's chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alec looks down at it and smiles. "You're a brilliant artist, Clary!" he calls out to her back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know!" she shouts in response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He closes the door, still looking down at the drawing. After shuffling towards Stiles, he turns the paper around and shows Stiles what Clary brought them. A wolf, standing at the edge of a river, an otter between his front paws, and the full moon and a starry night behind them both. There is room for the magic sigils Stiles would need in both the moon and the water; he knows Alec could figure it out because he'd figured out more difficult patterns on Stiles' skin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"An otter for you, a wolf for your work?" Alec suggests. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What's it going to cost me to have two, power-wise?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're not calling on two beings, bringing them into flesh-and-blood existence," Alec explains. He sets the drawing down on Stiles' lap. "It's… it's more like borrowing their abilities. Or asking them for guidance. I have a hawk and a hare. I use them when I'm on patrol. They help me watchfrom the air and the ground" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles looks at the drawing again. It's beautiful. He prefers Alec's work—it's usually solid and sharp and has a vibe that resonates in Stiles' soul—but Clary is an exceptional artist, too. Her portfolio is littered with mundane tattoos, mainly freehand portrait work; her magical tattoos are often based in feelings, instead of purpose, though, so Stiles usually opts for Alec's utilitarian work. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An animal guardian is something different, though. There is purpose, but the magic is more of a sympathetic bond, for a lack of a better way to describe it. Stiles sees his other tattoos as booster items in a video game. The animal guardian tattoo isn't something he can pick up and put down; it's supposed to be something less tangible but just as helpful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay," Stiles agrees. "Let's do it. On my thigh, maybe?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alec grins. "Yeah?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Stiles nods, Alec nods, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Cool. Lemme go tweak it and put it on a transfer sheet and get the supplies we'll need," Alec says. "Take your pants off and get comfy. I'll bring you a snack, too." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. He knows he'll need extra energy, of the caloric variety, if he is unable to rest, and Alec knows that, too. Magic may be, well, magic, but some mundane laws of physics still apply. To spend energy, one needs to have energy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Alec leaves him alone, Stiles pulls out his phone and checks his messages. Magnus sent him an email to Jimmy's account. After a flirtatious opening, he provides Stiles with contact information for a potential paying job: a pack territory dispute in British Columbia—near the northern border of the province. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could take Caolán's job and venture closer to bad memories, or he could go with Magnus' offer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hopefully it won't be too cold that far north. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After giving Derek the information for which he asked, he slipped out the window with a whispered "Merry Christmas, Stiles." Stiles replied with his own very similar words; even if it looked like Derek was gone, he suspected Derek would still be able to hear him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He didn't like that Derek didn't have a place to go for the holiday. It didn't seem right. He'd lost so much, and Scott refused to spend any more time with him than was necessary… nothing Stiles could say or do would fix the rift between them. Stiles had been suspicious of Derek in the beginning, but he'd changed his mind when he realised Derek had received a shitty, shitty hand in life's card game. Scott didn't care; he hated Derek and would probably never change his opinion. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But, Stiles watched when no one thought he was paying attention. He saw the way Derek tried to protect people—even if he wasn't quite getting the job done. He saw the way Derek held himself apart from everyone. He saw the way Derek flinched. Stiles ached to protect him—or, at least, to help him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>So, when Derek went to him for assistance, the first time since those observations and the realisations that followed, Stiles helped without complaint. It was as much of an apology and olive branch he could give without doing something completely awkward like actually saying the words. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>A lot of the help was mundane—finding a lawyer, apartment hunting, buying first aid course materials from which he could learn, and so on—but some of the help was supernatural, too. Stiles looked up information on faeries, territory warding, and druidic practices; he searched for creatures Derek encountered within the county. He didn't care what type of research it was; he valued feeling useful and he valued helping Derek. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>On a sigh, Stiles left the room. The window was still open, which would help chase the scent of Derek out of the bedroom he shared with Feliks, and he left his door open. Melissa and his dad were cooking turkey and all the fixings in the kitchen; the smells of cooking would waft upstairs, too, and help cover his secret visitor. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He jogged down the stairs, one hand brushing the wall and the other hand brushing the railing, and he bounced into the living room. Scott and Feliks didn't look away from their game; Feliks might have given Stiles the game, </span>
  </em>
  <span>L.A. Noire</span>
  <em>
    <span>, for Christmas, but Stiles hadn't been able to play it yet. He watched them and wondered if that was how he and Scott looked when they were together. The most insecure and anxious part of his brain wondered if Feliks could replace him completely. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I don't know what I'm gonna do, Mel." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles turned when he heard his father talking. He walked quietly towards the kitchen. Peeking inside, he saw them standing at the sink. Melissa's hand was on John's shoulder. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Well… it's been a while, maybe moving out of the house would be okay with them," she murmured. "They have memories of Claudia… the photographs and letters. She's more than walls and windows. She's in all of you." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"She always said this place would protect us," John said. "I mean, it's just romantic, magical thinking, but—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles turned and raced back to his room. He didn't want to hear anything else—he didn't care if anyone heard him running away. He couldn't be there anymore, listening to his brother with his best friend playing games while his father contemplated selling their house. The house was all he had of his mother; he could still see her dancing in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen windows, he could still hear her singing in the noise of the dryer, and he could still feel her in the touch of their garden's flowers. Feliks had her jeep—he barely ever let Stiles drive it—and he had a bracelet of hers, too, but Stiles didn't have anything like that except for his memories and the few photographs of the two of them together. The house was his memorial. He couldn't lose it—or her. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Even though it was Christmas, Stiles looked around at the walls of his bedroom and felt as if they were closing in on him. He grabbed his hooded sweatshirt and jammed his feet into his sneakers; much like Derek had a few moments ago, but with far less grace, Stiles shimmied out through the window and slipped down the nearby tree. He may have fallen—he didn't have an audience so he didn't care—and he simply dusted off his ass and legs before rushing off into the shadows. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He didn't stop running until he reached the cemetery. A sweaty, heaving, trembling mess, Stiles collapsed in front of his mother's headstone. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"H-hey, Mom," he wheezed. "Man, I need to run more." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There was a lot he wanted to say—</span>
  </em>
  <span>I miss you; you were the glue that holds us together; please stop Dad from selling the house, somehow; and so on—</span>
  <em>
    <span>but he didn't have the heart to say any of the words. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>In front of her grave, he could imagine her face… and he wanted to imagine her smiling instead of frowning.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He stared until he heard footsteps behind him. On a flinch, he turned; he relaxed when he saw Derek walking towards him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Dad's thinking about selling the house," Stiles admitted. "I… freaked out." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek's hand was a brief but solid weight on his shoulder. "I get it," he replied. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah," Stiles whispered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stay as long as you need," Derek said. "I'll drive you back." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles leaned into him, a brief press of their shoulders (or Stiles' shoulder to Derek's arm), and nodded. "Thank you," he replied. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Want me to give you some space?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After shaking his head, Stiles said, "Nah. You can stay." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even though he wants to stay in Excelsior, he knows he has to prepare for the next job. No hunters are involved; generally, that makes it easier, but it also means he needs to brush up on pack traditions. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus and Alec hadn't let him leave without a group dinner, though. They hosted everyone from their social circle—including Margo and Eliot—for a casual meal of sushi and ramen at their loft-like apartment. Thankfully, Alec and Magnus had been on their best behaviour; they only flirted with Stiles, or Jimmy, the way they always did, and neither of them mentioned the offers made. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had been a good time, and a great send-off. In the morning, Caolán walked him to his car where Mira was waiting with his supplies of mountain ash and mistletoe. They talked a bit, before he and Caolán hugged and before Mira gave him a warning to find the balance she thinks he's missing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After all of that, he leaves for Oregon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reaches Baker City twelve hours and five cups of gas station coffee later (thanks to construction and traffic and his body's exhaustion). He texts Magnus, Alec, Mira, and Caolán, letting them know he arrived, and he hauls some of his supplies into the flat he is currently renting. He needs to integrate Mira's purchases into his kit; he needs to check his weapons and other equipment to be sure everything is in perfect working order. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, first, he calls John. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don't talk on the phone often. Stiles hates putting John in that position—between him and Feliks—but he can't talk with Feliks or with Feliks even in the room. The pack doesn't have access to his life anymore. So, they keep their relationship mostly contained in text messages. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes, though, Stiles needs to hear John's voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When John doesn't answer, he doesn't think anything of it. John is a busy man and he could be working the night shift or he could be in bed early if he worked a full day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next day, Stiles tries again as soon as he woke up. He had a weird dream, about John hunting Feliks, and he doesn't like any of that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A sinking feeling settles into his guts when John doesn't answer—again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dad, if you're ignoring me… I will figure out a way to get the diner to stop serving you fries," he says when the call switches over to John's voicemail. "Look, I… I'm heading north, and I don't know if they have service up there. I'll try you again later today. Or before I hit snow. If there's snow this time of year. I don't know. I… I hope you and Feliks are okay. Bye."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles washes up and takes care of his new tattoos. After getting dressed, he looks over his supplies but decides he's not quite awake enough for all of that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He heads to his favorite coffee shop, on foot, in the hope that extra-strong coffee and a couple of bagels with cream cheese and smoked salmon will kickstart his motivation. It's not too early, so the morning rush has passed, and he walks up to the counter and waits for the cashier. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey, Jimmy," Lita says as soon as she sees him. "Back for more?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles blinks at her. "I… well, I would've come last night, but I didn't get home 'til late."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She frowns. "You were just here, maybe half an hour ago."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Uh… no, I was sleeping thirty minutes ago," Stiles responds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I just served you," she insists. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fear bubbles up inside of him. Has he been sleepwalking again? Has something gone wrong with the tattoos? Is his mind cracked open or exposed? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Is he possessed?!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles backs away from the counter, shaking his head. </span>
  <span>He hurries out of the shop, barely avoiding passersby as he counts his fingers and rushes back the way he came. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't stop until he reaches his temporary home, dodging cars and pedestrians with little concern for his personal safety. Once inside, he locks the door and activates the magical wards with a brush of a sweaty hand over the symbols. Blood would be better in an emergency but he knows he can't cut himself if his hands aren't steady. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Since university, he kept a simple system of wireless security cameras trained on his bed. In his dorm room, he'd only needed one, hidden in his closet and aimed at his side of the living space. Now, he has a few posted at the entrances to his apartment and main living area, in addition to the cameras in his bedroom. Nothing ever happens, but they'd been helpful when someone tried to rob him a few years ago. He hopes they'll tell him what he'd been doing when he was supposed to be sleeping. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The footage of the morning shows him sleeping. He never stirred beyond tossing and turning until his alarm rang. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He isn't possessed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't understand why Lita would think she saw him earlier in the morning. Unless there's someone else in Baker City who looks like him—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Feliks were in town, he must have some sort of pack news for him—and there is no way that would be good news. If anyone were hurt or if hunters were after the pack, John should have called him, instead of sending Feliks to his current address. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles contemplates the possible options and decides the only thing he can do is flee. The betas told him he should leave. Scott never defended him or anything that he'd done for them. Feliks had agreed with their Stiles-isn't-pack position, piling onto their opinion that Stiles should go because he is human and doesn't contribute. So, Stiles had taken their decision to heart and left. He left Beacon Hills to the pack. He respects their choice; if they can't respect his choice, he will make it difficult for them to find him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks around his flat. His clothes are on the dresser, not inside its drawers. His supplies are in boxes and cases designed for easy transport. The person from whom he's renting the apartment has his cheques; the account to which the cheques are connected has plenty of money from his paying jobs. Utilities are included in the rent. Nothing can keep him from leaving. He knows he can be packed and on the road in an hour. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's time to go. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles followed the sounds of groaning and growling as he raced towards his brother's last known location. Derek had called him earlier, saying they were hunting the creature that he'd seen at the garage, killing the mechanic (and the hunter, earlier, but Stiles didn't feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>quite</span>
  <em>
    <span> as badly about him as he did about the other victims). Stiles had been perfectly fine letting Derek and his pack handle the mess, but then Scott texted him—</span>
  </em>
  <span>@school 2. help get dny/flx out of wt rm k?—</span>
  <em>
    <span>and Stiles realised he wasn't going to be able to stay on the outside. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He couldn't let Feliks become monster food. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Danny, too, of course, but mostly Feliks. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Before he entered the locker room, he skidded on something both slippery and sticky; he flailed and grabbed the doorframe. He looked down and saw the blood.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There was so much blood. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When he looked up, he saw Feliks on the ground, Derek and Scott on either side of him. Boyd, Erica, and Isaac were standing around them. Scott was pressing a towel into Feliks' stomach; Derek was removing his fangs from Feliks' arm. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek bit Feliks. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What the fuck?!" Stiles shouted. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The leather-jacket triplets flashed their eyes at him and growled. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles, man, we didn't have a choice—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He ignored Scott and marched up to Derek. His crush was completely forgotten in the wave of rage he felt at the realisation that Derek had bitten his brother. With Derek on his knees, Stiles had no problem shoving both of his hands into Derek's shoulder and trying to knock him over. Derek actually swayed a little under the force of Stiles' push. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What the fuck?!" he repeated. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek wiped his mouth on his shirt before he stood and faced Stiles. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I know and I'm sorry," Derek said. "Danny managed to run, but the creature cornered Feliks before we could stop it. We found him bleeding out in here. There was no time."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"So you bit him," Stiles said. He rounded on Scott. "And you're okay with this? You're still holding such a huge grudge against Peter for biting you without consent that you refuse to join Derek's pack. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You</span>
  <em>
    <span> thought this was okay?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"He was dying," Scott said. "We couldn't get him to a hospital in time."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"They make these things called ambulances—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"And when they ask how a wild animal got into the school?" Erica interrupted. "How would we explain that?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I don't care!" Stiles exclaimed. "He is supposed to be apart from all this! He is supposed to be safe!" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek reached out and put a hand on Stiles shoulder. "I know… I didn't… I wouldn't have done it if I had another option," he said. "I couldn't let your brother die. I'm sorry." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Since Derek rarely apologised, let alone twice in a few minutes, Stiles nodded and acknowledged him. He looked down at his brother. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Is his heart…"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Steadying," Derek said. "He's healthy, apart from his injuries. It should take." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles nodded again. "You'll watch him? Until you know he's okay?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Okay… okay," he mumbled. "I… I need… I need a minute." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He walked off and managed to get all the way back to his discarded bike before his knees turned to jelly. Collapsing onto the sidewalk, Stiles forced himself to take in a deep breath. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks was supposed to stay away from the supernatural. He was supposed to be safe. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He wasn't supposed to be a werewolf—but, he wasn't supposed to be dead, either. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles wiped his hands over his face. He wasn't going back in there. They had Feliks' car keys, they could use the jeep to transport him to a safer place to recover, and they could do the </span>
  </em>
  <span>Werewolf 101 </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk. Once was enough for Stiles. He didn't want to sit and watch Feliks become stronger and faster; he didn't want to watch Feliks become a part of the pack when his own position was only tolerated by Derek's wolves. He needed a night to wrap his head around how his life would continue to change. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>So, he hopped on his bike and pedalled away. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dad, hi, it's me—Stiles—again," he says into his phone as he shoves his t-shirts into a duffel bag. "Quick question. Why on earth would you tell Feliks where I am? This is not our deal. You promised me the pack would never know where I am! I… look. I'm heading out. This address is now invalid. I'll call you when I can—and you better have an answer for me." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He jams his phone in his jeans' back pocket and adds his collection of hoodies to the canvas bag. His one suit was already in the suit bag and hanging in his vehicle. His other jeans and shorts are in another duffel, with his winter clothes. He just has to pack up his cameras and laptop and all the cords and chargers, do a quick spell to remove any biological traces, and then he can flee. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn't take long to ready his vehicle for the trip. He will mail the keys back to the apartment and email the renter of the property when he puts a couple towns between him and Feliks. The important thing is getting out of Baker City before Feliks finds him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once behind the wheel, he aims himself towards Interstate Eighty-Six and drives as quickly as traffic and the speed limits will allow. He doesn't have a full tank of gas, but he decides he'll drive as long as he can before stopping because he can't risk stopping in town and running into Feliks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows he's a shitty brother, avoiding his twin, but he can't put himself in the pack's path again. They've hurt him enough, over the years, and they made their point rather well when the betas got together and told Stiles he should go away for school because he wasn't pack. When that happened, he decided he was done with all of them, and he stands by that decision. Even Derek's softening of their blow hadn't changed his mind. He might be the alpha, but they are his betas. They are pack, together, and the pack made it clear that Stiles is not one of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It didn't matter that Stiles taught Scott control, held Derek up in a pool for hours, or risked his life against hunters and monsters again and again for them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He survived and found a new way to live and he can't have them messing it up for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles glances down at the gas meter and sighs. He can probably make it to the highway's next exit if he doesn't push it too fast and hard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shifts and sighs again as he continues to drive. The new tattoo on his chest itches. His new animals, inked into the side of his left thigh, don't itch as much; he suspects that has to do with the herbs in the salve that Alec told him to apply. Because it is more complicated magic, there is more ritual than intention and belief; there are magical correspondences and ingredients that need to be combined, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles hopes it will be ready for him to test when he reaches his next job. He would love to be able to test his animal guardians in a wild stretch of land. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's only one other car in front of the small gas station lot when he pulls up to one of the pumps. It's a rental; it's a bright orange truck, and it has tiger stripe decals on its sides. It seems too ridiculous to be a rental, to be honest. Stiles snorts at the gaudiness of it as he gets out of his jeep and fills his tank. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He would never drive a vehicle like that. It would be a beacon, something identifiable that hunters and supernaturals could use to track him. His jeep looks like one soccer moms would drive; it's only after someone looks in the trunk that they would realise the vehicle's owner isn't mundane. It's much more subtle than a gaudy orange truck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he pays for his gas inside, he also buys an armful of road snacks—beef jerky, peanuts, pepperoni sticks, a few pastries, and energy drinks—and ignores the weird look the clerk gives him. He used to explain his purchases by telling a cashier that he's on a road trip; he's been at the job long enough that he doesn't care what anyone thinks. He's not a part of the mundane world. He doesn't need to explain himself to them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He walks back to his vehicle, noticing a couple other cars in the lot. After nodding to a man who is finishing his business at the next pump, he deposits his snacks on the passenger seat. Before he closes the door, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Someone is watching him… and possibly approaching him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It turns out to be both. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks' voice is a little deeper than his. Stiles breathes past his shock and wonders if he's trying to growl and talk at the same time—or if Feliks' voice was always going to be deeper than his. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He faces Feliks slowly and closes the door behind him. Stiles' heart pounds forcibly at the sight of his twin. Feliks look good, all grown up. His hair is cut short, with a bit of length on top. He is dressed like an adult, in slacks and a button-up shirt. He looks respectable. Stiles tries to ignore the way Feliks' eyes dart to the tattoos on the visible skin of his neck and forearm; he tries to ignore the way Feliks' mouth tightens at what Stiles assumes is the ink in his flesh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Feliks, hey," he replies. He lets his gaze shift to Feliks' right side; another werewolf is standing next to him. He looks like a kid, his face clean shaven in a way that makes Stiles wonder if he even needs to shave. He's blond-haired and blue-eyed and very tanned. "And… new guy. You guys on a road trip? Just passing through? What a coinky-dink?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We're here to bring you home," Feliks says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. "Sorry. I have a job to get to." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Whatever transient drifter work you do can wait," the other werewolf says with a flash of his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After another snort, Stiles turns his back on them and walks around the front of his vehicle. He can hear the other werewolf growl; he doesn't care that he's offended them. He keeps moving. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Liam, it's okay," Feliks says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The werewolf named Liam protests, but Feliks quiets him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles, please," Feliks says. "Don't make this harder than it has to be." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Stiles chuckles. He opens his car door and looks over the hood at Feliks. "What did you think would happen when you found me?" he asks. "After how we left things, did you think I'd just hug you and do whatever you want?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks and Liam move slowly, walking towards him but not getting too close. Liam keeps looking from Feliks to Stiles, as if he's waiting for a cue from either of them; his hands are balled into fists, and his shoulders are holding a lot of tension. Feliks, on the other hand, seems very relaxed. Stiles doesn't know what to make of their body language. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I hoped you'd listen to me for a second before storming off again," Feliks replied. "We're family." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles cackles at that. "Yeah… we are. Didn't stop you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I was a kid!" Feliks exclaimed. "We all thought you'd be—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't. I don't want to hear it," Stiles interjects. "Whatever you think you need me for, you don't get to waltz back into my life and make demands. You and the others basically sent me away. I've stayed away." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And now it's time to come home," Feliks insists. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shakes his head. "I'll never go back to Beacon Hills," he declares. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks sighs. Then, he gestures at Liam. "Go get him—but </span>
  <em>
    <span>do not</span>
  </em>
  <span> hurt him," he says. "We have to get on a plane after this—he'll change his mind on the way."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Liam stalks forward, having been given permission to do the thing for which he'd been braced, Stiles closes his car door and prepares for the altercation by mentally calling on his strength and speed sigils where they're inked into his right shoulder to help his dominant arm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He is not going to give in without a fight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles looked up from his laptop and his research on lizard-shaped creatures when Feliks sauntered into their bedroom followed by Scott and Isaac with their backpacks in their arms. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"We're having a sleepover," Scott announced. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Mi casa es su casa," Stiles muttered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks had only been a werewolf for two days, and Stiles was already fantasising about being shipped off to military school. Derek said he wouldn't shift until his first full moon, but Stiles could see the same changes in Feliks that he'd witnessed in Erica, Isaac, and Scott—a mix of ferocity, insensitivity, and superiority—and he hadn't been all that wild about his brother before the bite. He did not want to be trapped in a bedroom with them. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"They're just here to make sure I don't do anything stupid," Feliks said as he sat down next to Stiles. "It's okay, right?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles nodded. "Sure." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Isaac cocked his head. "If you think you can handle him, we'll leave," he said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks turned and looked at him. "Why did you say that? Stiles doesn't mind—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"He's lying," Isaac said as Scott sat down on Feliks' bed. "He doesn't want us here. Sometimes, when people lie, their heart rates get faster or uneven." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You know, just because you have all these cool tricks, you don't know why my heart rate increased. Or why I smell a certain way," Stiles said. "Plus, it's super rude the way you just destroy any sense of privacy." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Isaac shrugged. "You don't seem to mind when Scott uses his senses for you." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I've only ever asked him to use his powers for good!" Stiles exclaimed. "And that saves your bacon, too." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>In a move of werewolf jerkiness, Isaac stepped towards Stiles and flashed his yellow eyes. "I don't need you to save my bacon," he growls. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Isaac…" Scott murmured. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"So you could have gotten out of jail by yourself?" Stiles shot back. "Really? Maybe I should have stayed home and let that hunter—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles!" Scott exclaimed. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What?" Stiles snapped. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"That's… not cool," he said. "I thought you're okay with werewolves." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm okay with the ones who don't insult me when they're taking over my bedroom," Stiles muttered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Our bedroom," Feliks corrected him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles sighed. "Yeah. Fine. Can you guys just get ready for bed and let me get through a bit more reading?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After a gentle pat to his knee, Feliks stood and padded over to his dresser. He found a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt; he left Scott and Isaac alone with Stiles and a heavy silence fell on the room as Stiles tried to read another ridiculous website about beings who probably didn't exist. Most of his searching brought him to reptilian conspiracies or Doctor Who fansites; it wasn't going well and having an audience for his failure wasn't helping. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Why didn't you ask Derek for the bite?" Isaac asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles looked at him from over his laptop. "I want to stay human, thanks," he replied. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Even if you're dying?" Isaac asked.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I… I don't know," Stiles admitted. "Maybe."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You should ask Derek for it," Isaac said. He unrolled his sleeping bag. "You're kind of a liability right now."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You're not," Scott protested. He glared at Isaac. "Stop it. Stiles has helped me loads. And he can handle mountain ash and wolfsbane—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"How many times did you hurt him while you were figuring out control?" Isaac interrupted. "How many times did he get into a dangerous situation on his own? We're only as strong as our weakest member."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles rolled his eyes and ducked behind his laptop. They continued to argue; Stiles stopped listening. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He knew being human was a risk when running with werewolves—it was the reason why he never told Feliks or their dad about Scott—but he also knew he wasn't destined to be a werewolf with them. He wasn't sure how he knew; he only knew that when Peter offered to bite him, a weird, sinking feeling opened up inside his stomach. His gut had told him 'no,' and he trusted his gut. When Derek told him his family pack had had humans in it, he'd thought he could still have a place with them and find a way to be useful to them; Isaac was pretty certain he didn't belong with the pack. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When Isaac growled and Scott growled back, Stiles snapped his attention back to them. Isaac was snarling through his fangs; Scott's eyes were glowing. If Isaac made a move, Stiles was mostly sure Scott would protect him, but he knew the bedroom would be trashed if they decided to brawl. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He quietly closed his laptop and very, very slowly moved away from them and towards the foot of his bed.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks appeared in the doorway, sniffing the air (as only a werewolf could) and looking from Isaac to Scott to Stiles. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What's going on?" Feliks asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Isaac doesn't think Stiles is pack," Scott growled. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Scott is only affiliated with the pack so he can help us with the lizard guy," Isaac said before a sniff. "I don't think he's the best judge of who's pack and who isn't."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"And I think I'm the only one trying to figure out what's killing people," Stiles muttered, "so it would really be great if I can do that without Smackdown happening in front of me." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks frowned. "What's with all the smells?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott's expression lightened. "What do you mean?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"There's a… metallic, burnt sort of smell—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Scott's anger," Isaac said.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"And the sweet and sour smell?" Feliks asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Isaac smiled around his fangs. "That's Stiles' fear," he purred. "Tasty, huh?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott squawked in protest as Feliks laughed. Stiles looked at all of them, huffed, and jammed his laptop into his nearby book bag. After that, he grabbed his lacrosse bag, because it had a change of clothes, shampoo, and a toothbrush in it. He put his sneakers on his feet and grabbed a jacket. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Where are you going?" Feliks asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Anywhere but here," he said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"He's just joking," Scott insisted. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles shook his head. "I don't think he is," he replied. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Where are you going to go?" Scott asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Your place, the library… hell, I'll go to the Argents and ask to bunk there for the night if I can't find another place," he said. "Have a fun sleepover. Don't leave your fur in my bed."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles marched out of the room before anyone could say anything else. He only hesitated once he was outside; he hadn't really thought about where he would go. Their dad was working a night shift. He could go to the library and see if the night janitor would let him in—it wouldn't be the first time—but he really hoped that John wouldn't mind a little company. He could stay in John's office for an hour or two and then tuck into the break room and read until he passed out. John wouldn't even know he's still there until he went in for his four o'clock pick-me-up coffee.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Liam gets his hand clasped around Stiles' arm, Stiles waits until Liam shifts his weight and prepares to pull before he lashes out. He kicks at Liam's knee and jerks his arm free at almost the same time. Liam drops under the surprise attack; his eyes flash golden yellow and he growls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Huh. I didn't think that would work," Stiles says, hoping to come across as normal as possible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles, c'mon, don't fight us," Feliks says. "We don't want to fight. We're just here to bring you home. We have a flight in a few hours in Boise."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm not going anywhere with you," Stiles replies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam pushes Stiles into his vehicle with enough force that Stiles is concerned about damage to the metal panel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You break my car, and I will break you," Stiles promises, looking into Liam's gaze without flinching. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're just human. Like to see you try."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The spiteful side of Stiles' personality wants to call on all his power and skill and prove to Liam that he is stronger than he appears to be. The sensible side of Stiles' personality knows he should rein in his abilities and keep them hidden. Jimmy Travers has a reputation and Stiles is protective of it. His caution allows him to continue to do his work in secret. No one ever suspects Stiles Stilinski, reject of the Hale Pack, to be of any importance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of fighting his way past Liam, Stiles reaches out with his gifts and finds the pouch of mountain ash he always keeps in his jeans' front pocket. It's already open—for reasons like the one he is presently facing—so all he has to do is think about a barrier around Liam's feet and push his intention to trap Liam at the dust. Feliks knows Stiles can manipulate the ash; he's seen him do it before, so Stiles isn't revealing anything but a more finely tuned skill. He can do this and still keep his secrets. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam notices as soon as the barrier is a closed circle. It would be impossible not to, with the way his hands are forced back from Stiles' body. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What did you do?" Liam snarls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles ignores him as he steps out of the way and faces Feliks. "What's going on?" he asks. "I haven't been in Beacon Hills in </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so whatever Derek thinks I did—I swear I didn't do it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks frowns. "I need to get you home," he says. "I didn't want to talk about it here. I thought you might just… be glad to come home. And we could talk about it on our way to the hospital."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Who's hurt?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dad," Feliks replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, Stiles can't breathe. Their dad is hurt—badly enough that he's in the hospital. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh god…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What happened?" Stiles croaks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He was shot. We don't know by who." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles pressed a hand over his heart. "How… how bad?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's going into surgery again today if he's stable," Feliks tells him. "He asked me to bring you home before he passed out. Derek booked flights for us to San Francisco. Lydia's going to meet us and drive us home. Can we go now?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Stiles walks away from both werewolves. John is hurt. He's been shot. Stiles needs to go see him, but he can't… he can't go home. He was practically kicked out of town, and he has never forgiven his so-called friends and family for that. Seeing them again… god, he never expected to see them again—ever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, he can't stay away when John is hurt. He will never forgive himself for abandoning his father more than he already has. He suspects John won't forgive him either—if he survives.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles tried to keep the limp out of his step on his journey from the warehouse to the jeep to the house, but as soon as he walked into their bedroom, he stopped pretending that every inch of him didn't ache. Gerard might be old but he knew where to hit Stiles and he did not hold back when doing so. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He could hear Feliks talking with John, something about where they'd been followed by a discussion of a sporting event that was on television, but Stiles tuned out the finer details. John was chuckling; he was happy. That was what mattered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It had been a whirlwind of a night. Lacrosse, torture, rescuing Erica and Boyd, stopping Jackson, stopping Gerard, and saving Jackson… Stiles was exhausted and sore and </span>
  </em>
  <span>done</span>
  <em>
    <span>. He wanted a supernatural-free month. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He also wanted a brother-free month—no Scott or Feliks until he was sure he could look at them without wanting to knock out their teeth with his fists—but he knew that wouldn't be possible. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Before Feliks could come upstairs, he shuffled off to the bathroom to take care of his wounds. A hot shower helped to ease the ache in his muscles and bones; bandages covered the worst of the cuts, but there was nothing he could do to hide the scrape on his cheek. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>With any luck, Feliks wouldn't smell the blood. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks finally bounded up into the bedroom after Stiles was settled in bed with the covers drawn up to his chin. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Really?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles frowned. "What?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Too much excitement for you tonight? Bed before midnight?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After a sigh, Stiles said, "I guess so." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm going over to the loft… we're getting pizza and celebrating," Feliks stated. "Erica and Boyd are back." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Since Stiles had been the one to convince them to return to Derek and tell him why they were scared, that wasn't news to him. He nodded and closed his eyes. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Sweet. I was worried about them," he said. "Have a slice for me." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Derek said I should bring you," Feliks added. "You should come." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles clenched his jaw. He didn't want to see Derek, either, until the feeling of betrayal passed. He understood that the pack's alpha would have secrets, but he'd thought he'd proven himself to Derek. He thought he and the rest of the pack knew Stiles could be trusted. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Tell Derek I appreciate the offer, but I'd rather sleep off the excitement." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What's wrong?" Feliks asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Nothing," Stiles lied.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks walked over to the bed. He frowned. "You're hurt. I can smell the blood." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Apparently, Feliks' nose was better than Stiles suspected.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm fine," Stiles lied. "Just, y'know, human clumsiness." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks pulled the covers off of Stiles' body, ignoring Stiles' squawk of protest. He couldn't see anything—unless Feliks had X-ray vision and could see through his sweatpants and hooded sweatshirt—and he tossed the blankets back over Stiles. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What happened? Lacrosse?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah," Stiles lied again. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks' ears weren't that great—or he just didn't care. He nodded and stepped away from the bed. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Are you mad we didn't tell you the plan?" Feliks asked. "You smell like burning." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm mad about a few things right now," Stiles admitted. "Go be with your pack, Feliks." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Either he chose to ignore Stiles' tone or he didn't catch it, because Feliks nodded and walked away from the bed. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"If you decide to stop being an ass, you should come," he said. "It's a big win for us. We should celebrate with everyone—and that includes you." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles nodded, but he knew he couldn't go. Looking at Erica and Boyd would remind him of the basement and Gerard; they promised not to say anything, but if Stiles had a panic attack he couldn't guarantee that they'd stay silent. Looking at Scott would make him want to hit Scott. He didn't know what reaction he'd have to Derek. Isaac only interacted with Stiles when he could really apply his creep factor to the conversation; Jackson and Lydia would be too subdued and focused on recovery to bully or humiliate him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter… </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles could probably stand to be in Peter's company, if he weren't feeling particularly murderous. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Hello, Stiles." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>At the sound of Peter's voice, followed by the little noise a creepy wolf could make while climbing in a window, Stiles groaned and muttered, "Think of the devil, and he shall appear." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You were thinking about me? How sweet," he drawled. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm out of research energy, and if you're here to maim me, you're too late," Stiles said as he opened his eyes and looked at Peter. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter nodded as he crouched down in front of Stiles' face. "I noticed," he said. "Who hurt you?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Doesn't matter."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Arching an eyebrow, Peter said, "I beg to differ. Tell me." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"They already took care of him."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Jackson?" Peter asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles shook his head. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Ah. Gerard, then." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I was a message that no one received," Stiles admitted, knowing Peter had full use and control of his senses and could tell if Stiles lied. "His goons took me after the game. Please don't—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I won't tell anyone, if that's what you prefer," Peter interjected. "What did he want?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"He asked about Derek and you and the pack," Stiles whispered. "But I really don't think he cared. He had Scott in his pocket. I was just… back-up." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You didn't tell him anything," Peter said, his tone firmly declarative. He hummed before adding, "You're the one who got Erica and Boyd out." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles frowned. "That was more Allison's dad than me, but I think I convinced them to go back to Derek." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Thank you." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He blinked at Peter, who smirked after a brief pause. "I… okay?" he asked. "You're missing pizza to check on me?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"So pedestrian, </span>
  </em>
  <span>pizza</span>
  <em>
    <span>," Peter said with a grunt of disgust. He pulled a package from his jacket pocket. When he put it on the bed, Stiles saw that it was a taser. "You're going to learn how to use this. And when you can move without whining, I'm going to teach you how to fight back—and win." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>In the face of Peter being helpful—and, dare he suggest, protective—Stiles didn't know what to do or say. He decided to go with humour so he didn't embarrass himself. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You came over here because you wanted to give me a taser?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I see more than the rest of them. The curse of genius," Peter replied. "I knew you were injured. And something about Scott's plan with Derek and your brother really bothered you. It was written all over your face. I thought I'd offer you this measly trinket and convince you to give me answers—but I changed my mind."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Because you want to beat me up?" Stiles joked.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter snorted. "No, because you're good for the pack. You're an unusual human, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mieszko</span>
  <em>
    <span>, and I'm feeling… weirdly protective of you—at least until I figure you out." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He rose to his feet. His knees cracked. Werewolf genes couldn't fix everything, it seemed, and Stiles smiled. It wasn't a surprise that Peter knew his first name—or the diminutive form of it, something his mother called him occasionally. Peter knew a lot of things he shouldn't know. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Use heat and ice when you can," Peter advised. "I'll come find you when you're feeling better." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah. Okay."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter moved towards the open window. "And use mountain ash around your bed if you need to," he added. "We're all entitled to set boundaries." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Thank you, Peter," Stiles whispered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He must have sensed Stiles' sincerity, because he nodded before he slipped through the window, no trace of a smirk on his face. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Once alone, Stiles put the taser in his bedside table and pulled out the small bag of mountain ash he kept in the drawer. Deaton told him all he needed was belief to make it work; belief was all he had at the moment. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He sprinkled a bit of it on the floor, thinking about it circling his bed, and when he opened his eyes, he saw a perfect border drawn in a very thin line of ash. It traveled around his bed, along the surface of the carpet, ending at the wall. Satisfied with his work, he settled back into his mattress and closed his eyes. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How did he get shot?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks frowns. "We don't know," he replies. "He was off-duty. He was at the grocery store, on his way out. Someone shot him in the parking lot. No witnesses. Security footage didn't show enough to identify the shooter."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is Parrish still a deputy?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah… and Erica, Boyd, and Malia," Feliks says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. Erica and Malia have badges. It's the end times. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something of his thoughts must show on his face, because Feliks says, "We grew up, Stiles. Life goes on."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles grimaces, reminded of just how life continues. He lost his home, his family, and his friends; he had to figure out a way to live alone and still contribute to the world. He had to learn what to do with the gift inside of him, until he stumbled into Excelsior and found people who could really teach him. He's glad that Feliks learned that lesson, too—but he doubts the lesson was as hard or painful to absorb for Feliks as it had been for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dad asked for you," he continues. "Derek wants you to get home as quickly as possible, so he bought plane tickets." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"As much as I appreciate your alpha's gesture, I'm not flying anywhere with either of you," Stiles says. "If this isn't some scheme to get me home for some other reason—I have no idea what, but I don't trust any of you—I will drive there. You caught me on moving day. I'm not putting my stuff in storage or long-term parking." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Because </span>
  <em>
    <span>stuff</span>
  </em>
  <span> is more important than Dad." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> is more important than Dad!" Stiles shouts. "Why do you think I stayed away?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Because you're a selfish jerk?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles rolls his eyes. He pulls his phone out of his pocket. After a quick web search, he dials the number for the hospital and asks the switchboard to send him to the emergency room; from there, he asks if Melissa McCall is on duty. When he hears her voice, he doesn't know if he should laugh or cry—or puke. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey, Melissa," he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles?!"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Uh, yeah," he replies. "I…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Did Feliks and Liam find you?"</span>
  </em>
  <span> she asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He closes his eyes. "Yeah, they did. I'm just calling to… confirm, I guess," he says. "Can you tell me what's going on with Dad?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melissa sighs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I knew I should have insisted Scott go with them,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> she says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That really wouldn't have helped," Stiles tells her. "Can you just—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Okay, yeah. But we will be talking about that later, mister,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> she replies. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"His vitals are… okay. He stabilised enough overnight, so he's in pre-op right now. They got a lot of the bullet out when he came in, but it shattered and there were fragments in places. They're going to try to get those out today. They're in places they shouldn't be." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles leans against his jeep. "Okay… okay. I'm going to drive down now. I should get in around supper time," he says. "I don't want to deal with pack business, so can you put the word out that I'm just coming to see Dad?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I can try, but I don't know if Derek will want to leave him alone,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> she says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"It was touch and go for a while. Derek wanted to bite him—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No!" Stiles yelped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melissa continues to talk. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I managed to talk him out of it, but he's been hanging around in case things go south."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Derek's okay, if he needs to be there, but I don't want to see anyone else," Stiles stipulates. "I just can't." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'll do my best," </span>
  </em>
  <span>she promises. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Drive safe, okay?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll do my best, too," Stiles replies before ending the call. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They miss you," Feliks says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles rolls his eyes. "Well, tough. You made your choice. Live with it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns away from Feliks and calls Magnus. If he can't go to the pack dispute, he needs to tell someone so another magic user or emissary type can take it on if they want. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Darling!"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey, Magnus," he says, smiling at the warm, familiar voice in his ear. "Choose your words carefully, okay? Big ears around me." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Well, you're not at work yet unless you've mastered portals since you left Excelsior… are you in trouble?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sighs. "Unclear. Something's come up. A family thing. I need to go home for… well, at least a couple weeks," he explains. He sighs. "My dad was shot. So—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Of course! Gods. How is—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's going into surgery. I… I want to see him in case—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yes, yes," </span>
  </em>
  <span>Magnus interrupts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I'll take care of the job. Maybe Wilder will do it if I can portal them there. Or someone from the Granville Island community. They're closer. No matter, I'll handle it. You focus on taking care of you and your family—and call us or Caolán if you need help."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smiles despite his anxiety. "I can't ask you to—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus speaks over him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"You absolutely can. And you will, got it?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah… okay," Stiles replies. "I… hopefully it'll be fine."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Family's complicated. Even if you just want some company, you call,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Magnus insists. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Hypothetically, where would we be going?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Beacon Hills," Stiles admits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus' quiet whistle reflects Stiles feelings on the matter—and tells Stiles that Magnus is at least a little aware of the region's reputation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You be careful. I'm assuming some of the residents are why you don't go back there… for whatever reason, I trust you have a good one,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> he says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Don't let them take advantage of you while you're there."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles isn't sure what Magnus thinks happened, but he isn't going to clarify his history with Feliks and Liam so close. Instead, he assures Magnus that he'll be careful and thanks him for his support. Magnus sends him his and Alec's love in flirty words, and Stiles </span>
  <span>ends the call with his own playful words—</span>
  <span>partly to show Feliks that he can't ruin Stiles' day or life, but mostly because Magnus' attitude can be infectious when Stiles lets it affect him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he pockets his phone, he says, "I'll drive to Beacon Hills. If I'm lucky, I'll get there by six or seven. You should find someone to move that mountain ash, or else you're going to miss your flight." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're not going to let him go?" Feliks asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. "Really? You think I'm an idiot? He's like a feral dog. I'm not going to let him go so he can try to rough me up some more." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks bows his head, smirking. "Well, his mood'll be really great when he finally catches up with you at home," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He'll regret it if he does," Stiles replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam growls. "I bet I can get you before you get me." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"If it's just about speed, you're probably right," Stiles agrees. He smiles and lets some of Jimmy Travers' professionalism sink into his posture and facial expression. "Unfortunately for you, it's about more than that." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles waves to Feliks. "See you later, bro," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks chuckles. "You're really going to keep him trapped?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yep," Stiles says before he opens his car door and hops into the driver's seat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks' chuckle turns into a loud laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a wave, he pulls out of the gas station pump area and heads towards the road.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The hospital lights were too bright. Stiles hated the way they made his father look—pale, scared, tired—but he couldn't tear his eyes away from John's sleeping form. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"He's gonna be okay," Feliks whispered. "The doctor said it's just cracked ribs and a concussion." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just.</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles wanted to scream at Feliks for how casually he treated John's injuries. Deucalion had been in the house, after </span>
  </em>
  <span>them</span>
  <em>
    <span> because they're another set of twins (with one already a werewolf, so the likelihood that the other would survive the bite is strong, apparently, although Stiles doubted that), and John had stepped between the Alpha of Alphas—all hail the Demon Wolf—and his sons with only a few rounds of wolfsbane bullets in his service weapon. The shot had cost him his health—and could have cost him his life—and Feliks had the balls to say it was </span>
  </em>
  <span>just</span>
  <em>
    <span> a concussion and a few broken ribs. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles held his tongue. He knew he could be cruel, especially when he was scared or upset, and he didn't want to pile on by hurting his brother. It wouldn't make the situation any easier. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles! Feliks!"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>At the sound of Derek's voice, Stiles looked up. Isaac and Cora were behind him as he hurried towards them. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks jumped to his feet and launched himself at Derek before Stiles could say or do anything. Derek caught him easily and drew him into a hug. Stiles watched them, feeling a mix of fascination and jealousy; the former because he wondered if Derek would hug him and if they'd look like that if he did, and the latter because he wished he had someone (who was very Derek-shaped, but Stiles didn't like to think too hard on that concept) to hug him and soothe him like that. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As Cora and Isaac moved closer and offered Feliks their comfort, Stiles squeezed John's hand and rose to a standing position. He released his hold on his father and slipped around the gurney and past the werewolves. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He wasn't sure what he'd do or say if any of them looked at him. He knew he needed to remove himself from the situation. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Melissa caught up to him before he could get on an elevator. She </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>squeezed</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> his arm and pulled him off to the side of the corridor. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Honey? What's wrong?" she asked. "You look like someone killed your puppy." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles tried to smile but his heart wasn't in the gesture. "I… just worried about Dad. Y'know. The usual," he said. "Feliks and some of the pack are there now. I'm just going to go get a drink or something." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I can get you a soda if you want to stay with—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"No!"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Melissa's eyebrows crept up her forehead. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles coughed nervously. "I mean, no, thanks," he said. "I'm going to give them some pack time. Just… stay out of their hair. Y'know?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I thought you're pack, too," she said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I just need to… walk it off. The excitement," Stiles explained, skirting between truth and lie.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She nodded. "Okay, if you're sure," she said. She released his arm and hugged him before he could move away from her. "You know you can come to me if you ever need anything, right?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He closed his eyes as he tucked his face into her shoulder. She'd always given good hugs. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Thanks, Melissa," Stiles murmured. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Do you want me to tell them where you went—if they ask?" she asked as they separated. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles shrugged. "Sure, if they ask. If Dad wakes up… well, Feliks will be there," he said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He walked away before Melissa could say anything. When she didn't chase after him, he put on a bit more speed. He wanted a large cup of coffee, but he was pretty sure he needed to get to a bathroom before he had an anxiety attack. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Vague medical jargon. I'm not a doctor. I tried to keep it as simple as possible, but I didn't fact check. My apologies if I'm wildly inaccurate.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"How is he?" Stiles asks as soon as the doctor approaches the nurses' station, answering their call for someone to speak to a family member. "Sheriff Stilinski?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doctor narrows his eyes. "You were here earlier—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Twin brother, I'm the one with better hair and visible tattoos to tell us apart," Stiles interrupts. "I just got into town. I'd like an actual update on my dad. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With that, the doctor launches into a spiel full of medical jargon. Stiles listens and parses what he can: he'd been shot in the upper torso, but the initial impact amazingly missed piercing his heart, arteries, and/or lungs; however, the bullet fragmented and caused a lot of damage to the bone and surrounding soft tissue; he'd lost a lost of blood by the time the ambulance arrived, but the doctor credited the bystander who applied pressure to the wound; a few of the smaller fragments migrated and they'd waited to remove them because they wanted his vital signs to be better before performing the precision operation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The bulk of the complications came from aconite poisoning," the doctor continues. "He'd presented with some loss of motor function and numbness in his face and limbs, but we assumed that was a result of the gunshot wound. It took some time before we figured out what it was."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles clenches his jaw. John had been shot with a wolfsbane-packed bullet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Your brother didn't know why the Sheriff would have been poisoned with aconite," the doctor says. "Do you know anything about that?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Maybe it was in the bullet," Stiles suggests.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well. That would be a first," the doctor comments, eyes a little wide. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. "Yeah, definitely. Sounds weird to me. But Dad's not into alternative healing or anything like that… and I can't imagine another reason anyone would have that stuff lying around. Maybe he touched something covered in it on the job?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doctor looks at him, his eyebrows furrowed. After a pause, he nods. "That could be it," he says. "In any case, he seems to be past those complications, and he's been moved from recovery into a private room. Four-twenty-two. You can go see him if you'd like. He was asleep the last time I checked, but he's been in and out of consciousness." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Thank you," Stiles says. "And for saving my dad, too."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a polite smile, the doctor moves past him and leaves Stiles standing there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hunters.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>His urge to see John overshadows his urge to find out what happened. He hurries towards the room the doctor mentioned; it's a private room, which surprises Stiles, because John's insurance has never covered privacy. John is lying on the bed, connected to fluids, oxygen, and monitors; Stiles feels his eyes welling up with tears. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm here, Dad," he murmurs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes the rigid chair next to John's bed. Slowly, he slides his hand onto John's arm. His skin is warm and Stiles can feel his pulse when he concentrates both his mundane and magical senses. His energy feels sluggish, but strong; Stiles breathes a sigh of relief and mentally pushes some of his own energy along his arm, into his hand, and into John's body where they're touching, to help him heal. He isn't as handy at healing magic as Magnus and Caolán; however, he can loan John some of his strength and that will accelerate the process. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dad, I'm here… I'm back," he says in a quiet voice. "You don't have to wake up. All you have to do is get better. I'll figure out who did this to you and make them pay." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Them's fighting words." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles looks up and sees Jordan Parrish standing in the doorway. His gaze doesn't drift over Stiles' body; he looks steadily into Stiles' eyes and smiles a little in a way that projects comfort and confidence over anything else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, someone hurt my dad," he replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan nods. "So far, we don't know who did it. Someone damaged the hard drive that holds the store's security footage," he says. "The department is doing everything possible." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is anything happening in town right now?" Stiles asks. "Anything… under the department's radar?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a shake of his head, Jordan says, "Nah. We've been quiet. We had representatives from a pack near… ah, Walla Walla, yeah, come and stay with us a few months back, but that's about it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles tilts his head. John never mentioned that during their recent calls. Walla Walla isn't pressed against Baker City, but it is close enough to make him wonder if they played a part in Feliks locating him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nothing serious at work?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"A couple bee-and-ee's, kids messing with drugs… the usual small town stuff." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods and turns his attention back to John. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How… how have you been?" Jordan asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Great. You?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan chuckles, but it sounds like a nervous sound. "I'm fine," he says. "Everyone will be glad to see you. The newer members of the pack—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I think I can do without any pack gatherings," Stiles interjects. "I bested Liam before he could abduct me and force me to get on a plane, so… yeah. Not looking forward to seeing the rest of them." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan's eyebrows jump high, almost into his hairline. "I'm sure it wasn't—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What the hell was Derek thinking, sending him with Feliks?" Stiles snaps. "He's got </span>
  <em>
    <span>zero</span>
  </em>
  <span> control. A total loose cannon. Please tell me you're not letting him outside on the full moon." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan blinks. "I… I know he's got a temper, but—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He was flashing his eyes and growling at me—outside a gas station where regular people could have seen," Stiles says in what he hopes is a calmer voice. "When Feliks told him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>get</span>
  </em>
  <span> me, it was assault, not physical guidance. When I fought back, he almost slammed me into my car hard enough to dent the door panel." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that admission, Jordan sighs and shakes his head. "He's new. He's eager… to fit in, y'know? Derek's been keeping a close eye on him, but he keeps asking to help," he explains. "He gets along with Scott and Feliks—really listens to them—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, there's a mistake right there," Stiles mutters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"—and I think Derek assumed he'd be fine with Feliks on something simple like getting in touch with you," Jordan continues. "I'm sorry he got rough. Feliks, too. I don't know what that's about, but I'll definitely tell Derek." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. "Thank you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John grunts in his sleep. Leaning forward, Stiles smooths his hand over John's forehead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Easy, old man," Stiles murmurs. "You're safe. You got a fine hellhound of a deputy keeping watch." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns to Jordan. "I assume you're here to watch him?" he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan nods his head. "Yeah. Derek needed a break to check in with the pack and do his own work. He asked me to come keep watch and answer any questions you might have," he replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks or Melissa must have relayed Stiles' message to Derek. Jordan is a smart choice; he knows enough about the incident and he wasn't one of the pack members who made Stiles feel like he no longer had a home in Beacon Hills. He won't say it out loud, but he can see that Derek is using his brain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Thanks," Stiles says in a quiet voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"If we learn anything… are you staying at the house?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles frowns. He hadn't thought that far ahead, but he is reluctant to go back to the house and see how their lives have gone on without him. It's unfair—he thinks—to hold a grudge for something like that, because time does march on, but he feels so uncomfortable being back in Beacon Hills that anger is the only emotion that prevents him from feeling all the others running through his mind and heart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He is mad at them. Feliks and the other betas told him he wasn't pack, and Derek ultimately let it happen. John tried to convince Stiles to go to a school in-state (even after he moved to Philadelphia), so he could come home for holidays, but he eventually seemed to accept the decision Stiles made. No one stood up for him or told him he'd done enough to matter—except for John and Derek. They all lived their lives, together the way he'd wanted to be, and they must not have cared much about Stiles or what he could possibly be doing with his time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has a lot of anger—and sorrow—built up, thanks to the years he spent stewing while learning and working his new (or adjusted) mission. He doesn't think staying in the house will help with those pent-up emotions. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll probably stay at a motel until Dad's discharged, and then we'll see," Stiles says. "I'll get a burner phone and text you the number so you can get in touch if you need to." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan frowns. "Or you could just give me your number?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"To my actual phone? That can be tracked? Dude, I might've been born at night but it wasn't last night." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In response, Jordan snorts and shakes his head. "All right. Text me your new number when you get it," he concedes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When John smacks his lips and turns into Stiles' touch, Stiles makes sure he's leaning in so John can see him if he opens his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fel—Stiles?" John whispers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm right here, Dad," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John's eyelids flutter. "Oh, god, Stiles, I'm so sorry—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles brings his other hand up and clasps it around John's hand. "Hey, hey, you have nothing to apologise for," he says. "I'm supposed to be here for this stuff." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, getting shot is like your get-out-of-jail-free card," Stiles interrupts. He squeezes John's hand. "Parrish is here. He's going to watch out for you. I'll stay for a bit, too." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Promise?" John croaks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Promise. You're safe," Stiles murmurs. "And when you get out of here, you and I are going to have a serious conversation about the lack of vegetables in the fridge." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John groans. "Ugh," he replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan chuckles. "Way to kick him when he's down," he mumbles under his breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a smile, Stiles stays close to John. He falls asleep again after a few minutes, and Stiles lingers for a moment for sagging back in his seat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm gonna go take care of a few things," Stiles says once it seems like John is deep under the effect of the drugs administered to him. "Do you want me to bring you anything?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan studies him for a moment. "You know something," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of lying, Stiles decides to try honesty. "Not yet," he admits. "But I have a couple of rocks to check under. I'll let you know if I find anything." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Let Derek know, too," Jordan says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You can do that, right?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulls a small piece of folded paper out of his breast pocket. He extends his arm, offering the paper to Stiles; when Stiles takes it, he sees a number and address written on it in Derek's handwriting.The number is the same number from before, but the address is new. It looks to be near the old Hale House, given its address. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He understands you might not want to reach out, but he wants you to know you can—any time," Jordan explains. "And I think he'd like to know, from you, directly, if you think something is happening here."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Knowing he would need some serious emotional fortification before intentionally speaking with Derek through any medium, for a variety of reasons, Stiles has no intention of calling him any time soon. They parted on better terms than he had with the rest of the pack, and Stiles still has his Derek-shaped feelings tucked away in a box somewhere in his twisted-up brain, but he represents the pack as a whole and Stiles wants to avoid the pack for as long as he can. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll let him know if it's something that affects him," Stiles says. "Thanks for staying with Dad." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's one of us," Jordan replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles gives Jordan a nod, even though Jordan's words make Stiles' heart ache. John is considered pack—or at least pack-adjacent—and Stiles is still on the outside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hopes John heals quickly. Not even two hours into his stay in Beacon Hills, Stiles is itching to leave.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Every time Stiles was face-to-face with Chris Argent, he felt the reactions of both fear and fury in his chest. He knew Chris was Allison's father, and Allison was pretty fierce and wonderful (when she wasn't under her grandfather's influence), but that didn't give him a pass. Chris acted so superior to the werewolves; he acted like he </span>
  </em>
  <span>was</span>
  <em>
    <span> better, but he'd lived with Kate and Gerard and they'd been sadistic murderers. Stiles wasn't sure if Chris secretly approved of their behaviour, if he didn't care what they did to the people in Stiles' life, or if he'd just been oblivious to their disgusting actions, but Stiles believed Chris needed to dismount his high horse and start working </span>
  </em>
  <span>with</span>
  <em>
    <span> them if he really wanted to keep Beacon Hills safe. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"The Alpha Pack has nothing to do with us," Chris said. "Allison and I are not getting involved." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He knew Chris was going to say that. But, he also knew more than he was supposed to know. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>At first, he thought they were just dreams—a way for his messed-up head to process his mistrust and fear of certain people in Beacon Hills—but when he corroborated some details of one of the dreams (by sneaking into his father's police database), he realised there was more to them than subconscious processes. He wasn't sure how he was seeing those events when he slept, but they didn't feel wrong. They didn't scare him—except when he was watching truly terrifying events. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He snorted. Then, with bravado taught to him through sparring with Peter (or trying to spar with Peter) over the last year, Stiles marched past Scott and didn't stop until there was only a foot of space between him and Chris. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"It's okay for you to destroy lives, but you won't go out of your way to protect them, then?" he asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Chris snorted, too. "The last two years—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Was cleaning up after your wackadoo sister and psycho father," Stiles interrupted. He narrowed his eyes, "You think I don't know what happened at the distillery? Or… what about your forays into woodworking?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Eyes widening, Chris took a step back. "Who told you?" he asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He confirmed Stiles' suspicions with three words. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Why don't you try helping us?" Stiles suggested. "I'm not saying you have to get your hands dirty, but you have resources we don't. Information on their previous targets? Or about their packs before they went full-on villain?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After a long pause, Chris wiped a hand over his face. "I can do that," he agreed. "Anything else?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I want the wood you kept," Stiles said. "But Derek, as alpha of the territory, might want to ask you for something else instead." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Chris glanced from Stiles to Derek. "Anything to add?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Any insight you can give us about them would help," Derek said. "I respect your choice to stay out of the fight, although I reserve the right to ask you to join in some way if things become worse. They won't stop with the pack. I don't know what the wood is, but if Stiles wants it, give it to him—please." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Before he walked out of the loft, Chris glared at Stiles. "You should be careful," he growled. "Some things are dangerous to know." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He walked away after delivering his parting shot. Stiles sagged a little, adrenaline fading, and when he turned around, he was staring at a collection of faces sporting different moods: Peter, predictably, was smirking; Scott looked gobsmacked, with his wide eyes and open mouth; Lydia's eyes were narrowed and her lips were pressed together; Derek was frowning. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"How'd I do?" Stiles asked, grinning weakly at them. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"My, my, you are a knowledgeable little human," Peter replied. "I think that little show calls for Chinese food. Derek?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What do you know?" Derek asked. He was looking at Stiles, there was no mistaking to whom he was speaking. "How do you know it? Were you talking to other hunters?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles shook his head. "Trust me, big guy, it doesn't matter," he said. "It can't be undone. All we can do now is try to do better going forward." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek growled. "Stiles—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I don't know!" he exclaimed. "Okay? I had a hunch, I ran with it, and turns out… I was right! I'm as surprised as you are!" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>For some unknown reason, Derek nodded and murmured his thanks before walking into the kitchen. Scott looked at Stiles, brows lowering and furrowing; Stiles braced himself for whatever he was going to say. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Are you blackmailing Allison's dad?" Scott asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Behind Scott, Peter rolled his eyes. Stiles bit into the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. They weren't together anymore—or for a little while, according to Scott, although Stiles suspected Allison was learning that she could stand on her own and the break would become permanent—and Scott would still jump to her defense before thinking through a situation or puzzle. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"No, Scott, I'm not. I didn't say 'pay me or else I will tell everyone what you did,'" Stiles argued. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"It sounded like…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I won't be blackmailing him," Stiles promised. "When all this is over, though, he's going to have to decide if he's going to be a help or hindrance in the future. And if it's 'hindrance,' well, he should hit the road, because… we have enough of that shit here." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott scowled; Stiles ignored him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What do you care, anyway?" Scott asked Stiles' back, as Stiles walked over to his backpack and slipped its straps over his shoulders. "You aren't pack." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Speak for yourself," Peter said. "Pack contributes. Stiles contributes more than you. Therefore…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles blushed but hid the splotches of pink on his cheeks by adjusting his hoodie and letting the sweater's hood cover his head. "I better go. Feliks should be here for the meeting instead of me," he said.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You should both be here," Derek said, phone to his ear as he read from a takeout menu. "There will be plenty of food and—hi, yes, I'd like to order for…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles tuned out Derek's voice and walked to the door. Peter might think he was pack, but Peter, as he learned through their hand-to-hand lessons, was still crazy; Derek was the alpha and since he didn't contradict Scott's words, he probably thought Stiles was an ally and not pack. It was fine. He could still try to protect them as an ally. Eventually, they might need someone to move some mountain ash and then they would see his worth. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>##### </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Some of Derek's betas (Erica, Boyd, and Cora, he thinks) decide to follow him when he leaves the hospital, making his trip to Melissa's house a little more difficult. Luckily, a quick burst of magical intent (to dilute his scent and to cloud his physical form from prying eyes) allows him to leave the downtown area where he'd been driving aimlessly to bide some time. As soon as he feels protected by his power, Stiles steers his vehicle towards the residential neighbourhood where the McCall house—and Chris' current residence—is located.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He expands his magical senses before he leaves the safety of the driver's seat. Two humans and no werewolves are all he can feel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After getting out of the car and heading up the driveway, he sees Melissa standing on the porch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles, oh my god, it's been forever," she murmurs as they share a warm and squeezing hug. She pulls back and looks at him, her eyes full of tears. "John's been giving me little updates over the years, but it's just not the same. You look so good!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And you are just as beautiful as you've always been," Stiles says. "You're one of the people I want to see while I'm back. Hands down, in the top three." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melissa smiles and cups his cheek in her hand, visibly delighted by his teasing, before her smile softens and her eyes seem to turn a little softer and rounder. "Did you see your father yet?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Stiles says, "Yeah, he was even awake for a minute." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods. "Good… he was really worried about you. He kept saying things—like you weren't safe, or that it was a trap—and no one knew what he meant," she tells him. "I thought it was stress—he was in bad shape when he was brought in, Stiles." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles frowns. "That's why Derek wanted to bite him?" he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Again, she nods. "He lost a lot of blood. He was lucky and the emerg team was on fire." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silently, in his mind, Stiles says a prayer to the universe. He's not particularly religious, but his gifts and skills have taught him there are forces in the world he can't explain. He thanks the universe instead of a particular deity; he is grateful his father survived. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melissa's hand moves to his shoulder. She squeezes. "He's a strong man," she assures him. "He made it through surgery, his prognosis is good." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smiles. "Yeah… I know. Just… scary." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he realises, she has pulled him into another hug. Stiles goes with it, wrapping his arms around her as she squeezes his shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They separate after a long moment. "Not that I'm not </span>
  <em>
    <span>thrilled</span>
  </em>
  <span> to see you, because I absolutely am, but you know Scott doesn't live here anymo—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm here to see Chris, actually," he says, cutting off her words. He does not want to talk about Scott. "Can we go inside?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is this pack stuff?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shakes his head. "Nope. This is Dad stuff." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melissa's eyebrows furrow and she starts biting her lip; she still lets him inside, resuming the subject of how he's grown and filled out, looking like a man instead of a boy, and Stiles only keeps one ear on her words and replies as best as he can. He is waiting for Chris to make an appearance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They've never really seen eye to eye. After the nemeton blessed Stiles with images of what happened, the slaughter of hunters and werewolves at Gerard's order and Chris and his loyal hunters helping Deaton chop down the tree, Stiles' patience for Chris as he tried to find his way through his family's destruction had waned considerably. Chris had been a part of the force bringing absolute chaos and gut-wrenching pain to Beacon County. Over time, Chris has tried to help, but Stiles isn't sure if it will ever be enough to balance the cosmic scales. He only knows about a fraction of the blood in their local soil, and he feels like Chris doesn't care much about </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> the death. He lost everyone in his family; Stiles understands that sacrificial or murderous energy and its consequences might not be a priority under the weight of that loss. But, he remembers the nemeton's fear in the dreams and he remembers his own fear when he realised Chris had been watching him in the days after the nogitsune had been trapped again. Stiles knows he'll never be friends with Chris Argent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite that, Chris is also a liaison to the hunters who might shoot Jimmy Travers for the simple sake of killing a meddling magic user, so he is Stiles' best option for a starting point. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chris enters the living room and his sense of diplomacy completely abandons him. Chris was a hunter—and he might still be one. Hunters tried to kill his dad. Stiles can't wait. He acts quickly, pressing Chris into the wall with both hands (and a little push of his magic for strength) and getting into his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Tell me you didn't shoot my dad," Stiles says in a quiet but barely calm voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles!" Melissa exclaims. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm fine," Chris tells her. "We're just talking." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fragmented bullets. Aconite poisoning," Stiles barks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chris' eyes widen. "Is that… John was poisoned?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hunters' rounds," Stiles confirms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After sighing and tipping his head back against the wall, Chris mutters, "Damn it. They didn't know when I asked. That night, in the waiting room, Derek said Corey didn't smell anything unusual." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The bystander?" Stiles asks. "One of the chimeras?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah," Chris replies. "He… he's dating that guy, Mason. The successful chimera. And Mason's best friends with their newest werewolf. Mason and Corey aren't pack, really, but they help when they can. Both of them." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles remembers Corey as a skinny, scared kid who only wanted to live. He'd tried to be neutral, in the beginning, but he'd helped Theo enough that Stiles had been suspicious of him later, especially during the Wild Hunt. He rarely offered to help, even though he has great powers; Stiles can't blame him for that, but it stings that he is considered pack-adjacent, too, </span>
  <span>when he never wanted to be counted among their ranks.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why was he there?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's the grocery store. Why do you think?" Chris snarks back at him. "It wasn't a planned outing. It wasn't recon. The area's been quiet. Corey was just there and he saw the Sheriff get shot. He hid and waited until the truck left."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What kind of truck?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Bright orange. No cap, black tiger stripes on the side," Chris says. "Reported stolen last week. Haven't seen it since."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles groans. He remembers that truck. As conspicuous as it was, all he'd done was look at it and laugh. They've been hunting </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>—unless it was a coincidence that they'd crossed paths at a random gas station in Baker City. They must have followed Feliks to Stiles---or they used a magic user to pinpoint his vague location and were looking for Stiles to follow him back to Beacon Hills. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles?" Melissa asks. "What does this mean?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulls away from Chris, releasing him, and he turns his back on them both to think. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles spends his life traveling the continent, solving problems for and protecting supernatural beings. He swore he would never go back to Beacon Hills. His schedule is unpredictable; he picks up and goes wherever he feels he can be useful, so there is no pattern to his travels. Any time they find him, he must disappear off their radar again just as quickly. When he's inside of Excelsior's wards, he's completely undetectable. He has tattooed magic in his skin to prevent precise magical tracking. But, Beacon Hills is a place they can scout and learn; Beacon Hills is a place they can turn into a trap. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They shot him to find me or to lure me here," Stiles whispers, testing the theory. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Maybe," Chris agrees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking at him from over his shoulder, Stiles asks, "You know who I am?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I've pieced together enough stories over the last few years," he replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles turns back to them with his whole body. "I'm sorry about…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I get it," Chris says. "Let's call it the result of a long day." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Stiles cracks a smile. "Yeah, okay," he agrees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"To answer your next question, no hunters have identified themselves to me," Chris says. "Usually, if someone from one of the families is passing through, or thinks they've hunted their prey through here, they check in with me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you alert the pack?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chris nods. "And your father. It's part of the deal we made after Monroe." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Can you let Parrish know if you hear anything? He'll have a number to get in touch with me as soon as I go buy a phone," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Malia's usually my contact if the Sheriff is unavailable," Chris admits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shakes his head. "She's not… no. It'll have to be Parrish for this," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're going to need the pack, aren't you?" Melissa asks. "Stiles, if someone shot at John to get to you—although I don't know why—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't need the pack," Stiles interrupts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I thought they're your friends..." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We haven't been friends in… a very long time," Stiles says with a shrug in an attempt to hide his hurt feelings. "I don't know what they told you—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You wanted to get out of town for a little while, go to school, have normal adventures," she supplies, blinking innocently. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. "Is that what Scott said? Figures, the big chicken," he says. He rubs a hand over his face. "Okay… okay. I better go set up a few things and make a few calls. Thank you for the answers, Chris, and Melissa, for the hospitality. I'm sorry about my behaviour. I… I better get out of your hair in case someone's tailing me. I don't want to bring them to your door." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before either of them can say anything, Stiles leaves the living room and heads through the foyer to the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He walks down the steps and almost gets to his jeep, but he stops when he sees Peter leaning against the passenger side of the vehicle. Peter smirks at the sight of him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Welcome home," he says, his voice playful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't worry, I'm not staying," Stiles assures him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter grins and taps his right ear. "Now that I know a bit more, I'm looking forward to seeing the show when it all goes down," he says. "Why would hunters try to trap you? You're not a wolf… I don't think." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smiling at him, Stiles shrugs. "Maybe I'm just great at making friends," he says as he moves around to the front of his car. "Nice to see you, Peter. Hope it's only the one time." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh, come on, now," Peter drawls. "That's no way to treat pack." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. "Remember the betas' decision?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not them, </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>," Peter says. "The outcasts. Ultimately more useful—and far more handsome." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that comment, Stiles laughs for what feels like the first time in years. Peter might be of dubious moral (and mental)standing, but he still has his wicked and weird sense of humour. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Thanks, Peter. I needed that." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"If you need help…" Peter says, extending his hand and offering a business card to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles takes it. Peter's name, number, and email address are typed on it, along with the name </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hale Consultants</span>
  </em>
  <span> in a serif font. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What do you do?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's mostly to allow Derek and I to buy, renovate, and sell property," Peter explains. "Occasionally, I'll take an interesting job under its cover." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Narrowing his eyes, Stiles asks, "Like what?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter waves a hand. "Nothing important," he replies. "Just enough so that I don't become too lazy."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I hear lots of things," Peter continues. "Sometimes people come to me asking if I'll take on tasks that are beneath me. I could put a stop to the ridiculousness, but networking can be useful."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I hear lots of things," Peter repeats. "Did you know, about a year ago, someone came to me and asked if I'd be interested in taking out a magic user?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles frowns. "Oh? Someone close by?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not at the time," he replies. "Apparently, this Jimmy Travers was in Maine then."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hoping his heart is still beating steadily, Stiles shrugs. "What kind of magic user?" he asks. "A bad guy or—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't think so. Seems he makes a habit of getting in between hunters and their innocent victims," Peter says. He smiles. "He sounds like a decent guy to me." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles is fairly certain that Peter, like Chris, has put together enough of Stiles' activities to figure out who he is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Did you tell Derek you got that offer?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter shakes his head and pushes off from the jeep's side. "No, I didn't," Peter admits. "I had a feeling it wasn't my story to tell. Besides, I have it on good authority that this Travers fellow has survived just fine on his own." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. "He's probably pretty tough if he's getting involved in protecting supernaturals," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And skilled," Peter adds. "Impressive resumé." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles watches him, waiting for Peter to drop the charade and demand the truth. In typical Peter fashion, he doesn't do what Stiles expects him to do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Have a good day, Stiles, and be careful—who knows what, or who, is lurking around town," he says before he starts walking down the street. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once Peter turns onto the next road, Stiles breathes a sigh of relief and moves towards the driver's side door of his vehicle. He has to get to work if he's going to catch the hunters who are setting the trap for him; puzzling over Peter's behaviour won't get him any closer to his goals.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>"You shouldn't be here."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles opened his eyes, propping his elbows against the large tree stump so he could see Deaton enter the clearing. He arched an eyebrow, bluffing because he had no clue how he ended up in the forest, and he waited for Deaton to say something else. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I mean, it isn't safe to be in the woods right now, with the Alpha Pack lurking around," he added as Stiles stared at him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"It's not safe anywhere," Stiles said, finally, thinking back to Deucalion being inside his family home. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Deaton nodded in the placid way he did when he was buying time or looking for information. As Stiles watched him, refusing to give Deaton the answers for which he might have been searching, he felt a strange feeling bubbling up inside of him. It was internal, inside of his body, but it was external or alien in a way that he knew it didn't belong to him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He'd gone to bed in the room he shared with Feliks, had another dream about the tree, in its entirety, and woke up in the forest. The sleepwalking was new; usually, he woke up in bed with another revelation about the nemeton or the history of Beacon Hills pulsing in his mind. He wasn't covered in blood or injured, so Stiles wasn't very worried. Unlike any other time he was in the forest, he felt calm reclining on the convergence point. He was concerned about the trek back to his house, but he wanted to figure out what was happening—even a little bit of it—before he worried about that. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"How did you find this place?" Deaton asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The feeling of strange anxiety swelled within him. Stiles made an intuitive leap and decided he shouldn't tell Deaton the truth. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Just walked," Stiles said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"In your sleepwear." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles shrugged. "Sometimes, the need to get out of the house can't be delayed, Doc," he explained. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Do you know what this is?" Deaton asked as he gestured towards the tree stump. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Well, it was a pretty big tree at one point. Until some asshole decided to chop her down." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Pressing his lips together, Deaton tilted his head. "Her?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Truthfully, the feeling inside of Stiles </span>
  </em>
  <span>felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>female, like the energy had a consciousness and a gender, but he wouldn't admit that to Deaton. He was so far out of his depths that he was not at all comfortable confessing his opinions or feelings until he had proof. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah, like a boat or car is a 'she,'" Stiles lied. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Deaton nodded. After a moment of regard, he took a step towards the tree stump. The anxiety in Stiles' gut intensified; he had to resist the urge to pet the stump and murmur to it that he won't let Deaton hurt her anymore. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"How exactly did you get the mountain ash around the dance club last year?" Deaton asked. "Scott said you ran out." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As the anxiety increased to something hotter and sharper, Stiles tilted his head to mirror Deaton's pose as much as he could from his perch. "A very thin line," he replied. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You should have training, Stiles," Deaton continued. "Clearly, you have some sort of ability beyond the power of your belief. It could be channeled into worthwhile endeavours." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles thought about the dream in which Deaton stood with the hunters and helped destroy the pillar that acted like a focus and anchor for the telluric currents in the area. He'd felt the fear of the tree—and as weird as it was, he knew it was the tree's fear—and he'd watched as they'd chopped into her beautiful base. Even though he was unsure how he knew what he knew, he was aware that the wood was used for magical containers and weapons that Deaton and the hunters, respectively, continued to use without shame. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He might not yet know </span>
  </em>
  <span>what </span>
  <em>
    <span>he was—if he were anything beyond incredibly normal with a dash of intuition—but he did know that he would not learn from Deaton. He wanted nothing to do with Deaton. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The anger in his gut was more his than not. It burned hot and sour at the idea of taking lessons from the man who did nothing to protect his Alpha and his pack—or Derek, specifically, when Kate, at least old enough to drink, began circling him at the not-at-all-ripe age of sixteen—and who let the fire's survivors stumble, fall, and ultimately fail because they didn't glean the information they needed from his cryptic tongue whenever he deigned to use it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>At those thoughts, an image slipped through his mind. He saw Talia Hale, kneeling at the stump; he saw a woman, whose face he couldn't see in the darkness, standing behind her. Talia was crying and mourning its destruction, until she detected a scent caught in the air and it turned her mood to the anger Stiles felt growing alongside his own. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Had Talia known Deaton was responsible for the destruction of the special tree? Or, was Stiles daydreaming the whole thing? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He had no idea what was happening. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Deciding to save the freak-out for later, when he didn't have an audience, Stiles pushed himself up into a sitting position. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Thanks, Doc, but right now… my plate is pretty full, and I'm not interested in another helping of… well, whatever you're offering," he said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You could support the pack—be useful to them, give them your strength," Deaton wheedled. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles arched an eyebrow. "Is that what you did for Derek's mother?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You shouldn't speak about things you don't understand." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles bit back the snort that was itching to be expelled. "I think I understand enough," he said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Deaton nodded again. After a long moment, he asked, "Do you need a drive home?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He had no intention of going anywhere alone with Deaton. He didn't know much about magic, but he could feel that negative vibes coming out of the tree stump; whatever it was, it had given him enough insight to surprise Chris Argent, so he felt like he could believe that Deaton had been his co-conspirator. Stiles would not trust Deaton. He would not allow himself to be another mark on Deaton's tally. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"No, thanks," Stiles replied. "I think I'm going to stay here a bit longer. Nice fresh air." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Deaton frowned, but he didn't protest. He might have hoped that one of the alphas would find Stiles and make an example out of him, but Stiles wasn't going to ask why he dropped the subject and walked away from the clearing. The energy changed to something more peaceful as soon as Stiles was alone, and he chose to focus on savouring the feeling.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The motel room isn't the nicest, but Stiles is more concerned about collateral damage than the quality of the furniture and fixtures. He chose a place that was just outside of town, far from most residential and business areas; if the hunters come looking for him, mass casualties are less of a concern there than if he stays in a fancier place like The Grand Beacon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wards the room with protective and defensive sigils, but he only brings in a few things—a handful of magical supplies, a couple changes of clothes, his travel toiletries kit—and elects to leave the rest in the jeep. His vehicle is more strongly and permanently protected. Plus, he likes being mobile; he likes knowing that if he has to leave town quickly he can leave the possessions in the room behind and still be nearly fully stocked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With those tasks complete, he pulls his laptop out of his bag, hops onto the bed, and does a cursory search of the county's big news. He goes back one month, just in case, but doesn't really find anything of interest beyond recognition of a public petition to have the old distillery bulldozed. He lingers on the article because of the memories it evokes; he can still see the meeting-turned-bloodbath that the nemeton shared with him, and he knows that was where Julia Baccari failed to win her personal war. He approves of county officials razing it to the ground. Apart from a few dissenting voices, the area's population seems to want that, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles then decides to go visit the nemeton, if the tree will allow it, before running a few errands; but, before he does any of that, he picks up his (Jimmy's) phone and places a call to his mentor in Excelsior. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I wondered if you'd call,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mira says in his ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smiling, Stiles says, "You knew I would."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"When Magnus told me you were heading home to Beacon Hills—of all places, my gods, kid, I had no idea but it explains so much about you—I had a hunch you might think you need guidance."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Got any pearls of wisdom for me?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mira chuckles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Tell me what's going on and I'll see what I've got for you." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tells her about his father being shot by who he suspects is a hunter; he tells her about his guess that the shooting was meant to be bait for a trap. But, he doesn't tell her about his difficulties with the pack and how he feels every time he sees one of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She is silent for a few seconds. Then, she says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>"How's your dad?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"In and out, groggy from the drugs," Stiles replies. "They removed the bullet fragments… we're just waiting to see how he recovers."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Are you alone? Is there anyone else? Family? A sibling?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sighs. "I have a twin brother," he admits. "We… we don't get along. I'm trying to avoid him and his friends." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a cluck of her tongue, Mira says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>"His pack."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah," Stiles breathed. "It's… complicated." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"It's probably why you feel so unbalanced,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> she says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Being that way isn't always bad. It drove you to learn and open yourself up to your abilities, after all, and it continues to drive you to protect and help people."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughs softly before speaking again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"But... Jimmy, you're doing yourself a disservice. You deserve resolution and closure so you can move on," she says. "You don't really trust anyone, but I suppose we're all as close as you'll allow. Don't you ever think about putting down roots and seeing what will grow?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I like traveling," Stiles protests.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Wouldn't you like to have a home to return to? A permanent address?" she asks.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighs. Of course he would. He'd had that before, though, and that hadn't ended well for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What are you proposing?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"That you uncover your wounds and open yourself to genuine healing,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mira replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles doesn't see that happening any time soon—not with hunters trying to catch or kill him. But, he knows Mira wouldn't suggest it if it isn't important. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You don't need to tell me the gory details," </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mira continues. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"But, consider reaching for that conclusion—for yourself. And if you ever need assistance, you have people here who would hurry to your side." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sighs again. "I don't want the wolves to think I'm weak," he admits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Vulnerability is strength—not weakness—and they're a pack of jackasses if they can't see that,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mira responds. She snorts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"And that's my pearl of wisdom for you."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smiling, Stiles leans back against the headboard. "Thanks," he murmurs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You be careful," </span>
  </em>
  <span>she says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"If these hunters are here for you—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I've ruined a few hunts this year alone, so it makes sense," he argues.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm not disagreeing with you,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> she replies. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"It does seem a little extreme, though. It could still be someone trying to shoot at the pack."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles knows she is right. It is a lot of work to pin him down to one location. However, after working against so many hunters since he abandoned higher education and focused on becoming the best (and most useful) magic user he can be, he also knows that most of them are cruel and sadistic and would prefer to lure their prey into a miserable trap instead of chasing after their target. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I promise I'll be careful," he says. "And I'll stay in touch when I can." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You better."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They end their conversation and Stiles packs his messenger bag with everything he'll need for the next few hours: wallet, keys, laptop, phone, chargers, mountain ash, goop for his tattoos, and a couple of focus crystals. Once he visits the nemeton, he can run his errands and then he can sit and research from his father's bedside as easily as he can in his motel room. It feels like he has a plan. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He drives his jeep to the edge of the forest. Then, with his bag slung across his torso, he treks past the tree line and hopes he'll find his query. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The tree is magnificent. She has grown from a small shoot after the nogitsune disaster; the old tree stump shattered as she developed, and now there are little seats all around her new form. In the years since he last saw her, she flourished. He stares at her from a distance before he approaches and holds up his hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh, wow," he murmurs. "Look at you, lady." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The nemeton has always seemed sentient—and female—to him. It's hardly the weirdest thing he's ever encountered; it seems perfectly possible to him. As he touches her bark, his belief is reaffirmed as warmth floats around and through him the moment he makes contact. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How are you?" he asks. "Have you been taking care of the territory? Has the territory been taking care of you?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A bird twitters happily from a few trees away. Stiles smiles and rubs his hands up and down along the bark. She's growing—thriving—in a place where so much destruction once stained the earth. It gives him hope that Beacon County is generally safer than it had been when he was a kid; it gives him hope that the people in his heart, however unwillingly, will continue to flourish there, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At first, he hadn't understood what was happening. He rolled with it for as long as he could, curiosity overwhelming common sense, but then Julia's war had loosened the nogitsune and Deaton's ritual sacrifice had loosened his head; Stiles had assumed the possession had been the nemeton's attack on him. Fear chased him away from the convergence point. It had taken a while before he realised it had been an accident—actual physical damage to the magical container and a lack of magical focus that couldn't fight the barely-contained evil—and not an intentional infection. By then, though, he'd already been on the other side of the country. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His return is long overdue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I haven't been seeing other nemeta while I was gone," he says, "but I don't know how long I'll be here. I can't… be on the outside and watch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I do good in the world—or I try to. Protecting people who need protecting," he continues. "I'm trying to be the person we all needed when I was sixteen, y'know?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucan, the Roman poet, described nemeta as eerie scenes that would be at home in a spooky movie, but he'd been wrong on several counts. Where he'd portrayed them as silent and nearly empty places, Stiles sees theirs is full of life in its new form; birds and animals linger around the site of convergence, instead of avoiding it completely. From what he understands, some do have altars, but none remain neutral and free if they are wet with sacrificial blood. Their nemeton is an example of that. While some of the sacrifices were unintentional, they still soaked the ground and changed the energy running through this part of the world. He wonders if that's still the case, or if the excess of energy and warped intentions have faded away—or if the energy is still waiting to be used. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of emptiness and silence, the nemeton seems to respond to him with a swell in birdsong and rustling leaves. He sighs and pats his hand along the bark.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I brought you something," he says. "Not a sacrifice. I… I will be here for at least a couple weeks, but when I leave again… I want you to have something of mine. In case you're in trouble, I guess?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't say anything about Deaton, but an image of him flutters to the surface of his thoughts. Deaton can perform a ritual to find her; he can harm her and start the cycle over again. It can't hurt to be careful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles reaches into his bag and pulls out the two focus crystals. "I brought this crystal for you," he admits, holding up the one with the greenish tint to it. "I have the other one," he adds, revealing the pinkish-toned stone. "But, I don't have to keep mine. I can bury it here, in the woods." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's overly sentimental, but making the offer feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> in a way that magical energy often can. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't like you being alone," he says. "I don't know if you'd be able to reach me with this. But, hopefully… I mean, Caolán and I used them when we went out on a job together. No reliable cell reception, so we needed something secure that could work over the whole national park." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The birds sing as he rambles at the tree. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And you've basically got the world's magical energy running through you, but—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles breaks off and closes his eyes. He remembers the feelings associated with the images of Chris and Deaton and the other hunters; he remembers the way he felt warm and safe even when he woke up in the middle of the forest, sitting on a tree stump, when he should have been panicked. He remembers the way he tentatively approached the nemeton months after his possession, and how fear made him shake with every step he'd taken. This tree—or the energy convergence that flows through her—is a part of him no matter how hard he pretends he doesn't have a connection to her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he opens his eyes, he sees a small divot in the bark, a couple inches below eye level. He takes that as a sign and carefully tucks the crystal into the space. It fits perfectly and is very nearly out of sight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I… I'll try to come by and visit again," Stiles says. "I'm so glad you're growing and thriving." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wonders if Derek has visited her. He wonders why he wondered that, looking up at her leafy boughs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay. I have to go check on my dad… he got hurt," he says. "Thank you for allowing me to see you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pockets the other crystal, touches the tree again, and walks away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Birdsong follows him the whole way back to his vehicle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Looking up into Derek's face, Stiles frowned. "Excuse me?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Deaton told me you refused to be his apprentice," Derek repeated. "I want to know why."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles frowned. "Hilarious. He tells you </span>
  </em>
  <span>that."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He took a step away from Derek and looked through the loft's large windows. "I don't think his thing is going to be my thing," he said. "Half answers and secrets. And what he did—no. He isn't a good person."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"He was my mother's emissary," Derek said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course, Derek took his answer as an insult. Stiles sighed and ran a hand over his head. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah, and he did a bang up job," Stiles muttered.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What does that mean?" Derek growled. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles looked at him. "Can you genuinely tell me that you have a good feeling when you talk to him? Deep in your gut?" he asked. "He was fine when I didn't have an inkling of who he is or what he's done. But now? My skin crawls when we're in the same room. I want nothing to do with him."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek glared. "He helps the pack."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah? Did he help you when you were in trouble? Or how about when we were trying to figure out it was Peter killing people? How helpful has he been through all this sacrifice shit?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I was hoping… when he told me he thinks you have some sort of power, like him, I was hoping you would train with him so you could be our emissary," Derek admitted. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>His confession warmed Stiles' heart—and probably his cheeks, too, if the heat in his face were any indication. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Find me someone else, and I'll learn from them," Stiles said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Okay… if you won't budge on this?" Derek asked.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles wanted to change his mind. He wanted a place in the pack so badly—a place where he belonged, where he </span>
  </em>
  <span>fit,</span>
  <em>
    <span> it was all he ever wanted since he started feeling disconnected from his family—but he couldn't accept it if it came with spending time with Deaton. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Deaton could not be trusted—Stiles felt that with every fiber of his being. The fact that he went to Derek, trying to force Stiles to apprentice under him, was just another mark against him in Stiles' mind. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"If I thought it's the right thing—for me or for you and the pack—I'd do it in a heartbeat," he said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Lie."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles turned and saw Feliks, Scott, and Erica. Erica had gotten even more abrasive since she and Boyd returned to the pack; she'd also, apparently, gotten better at stealth, but Stiles liked to think that was the Derek-shaped distraction in front of him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He might have been lying—he wouldn't have done it in a heartbeat; he </span>
  </em>
  <span>eventually</span>
  <em>
    <span> would have done it—but they didn't understand why he was lying. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek frowned. "What do you mean, then?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I mean… I'd hem and haw, and worry, and struggle not to turn out like him, but I'd eventually agree," he said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Like who?" Scott asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Like no one," Stiles said, at the same time Derek said, "Like Deaton." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott frowned. "Why? He's a good guy."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles reined in his urge to roll his eyes. "Sure."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Lie," Erica said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek raised his hand. "Erica…"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"He helps us!" Erica exclaimed.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"And he's my boss!" Scott exclaimed. "He's helped me with control, taught me how to drain pain, and—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles saw the way Derek's eyebrows pinched together; his heart ached for Derek in that moment. He knew Scott and Derek had their differences, especially in the past, but he also knew Derek had been operating under a tremendous amount of pain and that contributed to his poor first impression. He hated that Scott saw Deaton as a better teacher than Derek, because of the bad vibes Deaton evoked and because it hurt Derek's feelings. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He was also pretty hurt that Scott neglected to acknowledge how much </span>
  </em>
  <span>he</span>
  <em>
    <span> had helped him with control—and been slashed and bruised for his efforts—but Stiles wasn't going to dwell on that. Admittedly, it wasn't his best work. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"He's saved all of us," Feliks added. "He saved you!"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles frowned but he didn't say anything. He knew Deaton had done things that benefited the pack; however, he knew Deaton's motives were selfish as much as (or more than, depending on the day) they were altruistic. He saw Deaton at the nemeton with the hunters. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Chris</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> confirmed it wasn't a made-up hallucination. He knew something fishy was going on beneath the facade Deaton showed them. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Doesn't mean there's not something else going on," Stiles said after a long pause. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"That's the second time you've acted all-knowing and cryptic," Feliks said. "Scott told me what you said about Argent. These are our allies, Stiles." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Maybe they shouldn't be." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks stepped forward. "Why do you think you're so much smarter than us?" he demanded. "You're human. You can't hear lies or smell stress. You don't know better than us!" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Frowning, Stiles met Feliks' gaze. "Really? You want to go there?" he asked in reply. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek stepped between them. "Enough," he said, his voice firm. "We are allowed to have different opinions of people. We are allowed to be suspicious. We are allowed to choose who to trust. As long as we don't endanger the safety of the pack." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"That's what Stiles is doing!" Feliks insisted. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Erica supported him with a growl and a flash of her eyes. Scott wouldn't make eye contact with Stiles, but he could see through Scott's tense body language that Scott was pretty furious. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There were days when Stiles was just </span>
  </em>
  <span>so done</span>
  <em>
    <span> with werewolves—even when there were werewolves in his family. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Fine," he muttered. "I'm wrong, you're all right. 'Twas ever thus." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Erica opened her mouth, probably to say 'lie' again, but Derek gestured at her with his hand. She pressed her lips together again. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>With a last look at Derek, Stiles grabbed his book bag and walked away from the pack. He couldn't convince them without proof; he didn't know how to get that proof. It wasn't an argument he could win without support, and he really didn't want them to learn firsthand that Deaton couldn't be trusted because that would mean they'd be betrayed. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>He could accept them thinking he was wrong if it meant they continued to live</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles!"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Before he reached the stairs (because he was not getting back in that death trap of an elevator—once a day was enough), Derek caught up to him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Did I do something else wrong?" Stiles asked. "Or—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek shook his head. "No, no, I'm sorry… just… Deaton said you were in the woods. Alone." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Deaton really tattled on Stiles. He shook his head, laughing under his breath. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Really?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I… how did you… why were you there?" Derek asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Lemme guess. He planted the bug that you should ask those questions," Stiles said, eyebrows raised. "Suggested I was in a dangerous place? Maybe some bad juju out there? Maybe it's a place where bad things happened, and he's curious how I found it?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"There's a pack of alphas out there, Stiles," Derek replied. "Nowhere is safe." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I was fine."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek glared at him. "Stiles… if anything happens to you…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It would be easy to let himself believe that Derek cared about him, as a part of the pack and as a separate entity; Stiles liked to think he grew up from his days of thinking he had a chance to win any sort of affection from people beyond his league. But, Derek looked so serious and concerned, staring at him. He looked like he cared about Stiles. After a discrete mental shake, Stiles had to remind himself that Derek was concerned with his wolves—and not with him, not really. It was how it should be and how it was, no matter what Stiles hoped. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Then you won't have a puny human around giving you a hard time," he said in a flippant tone of voice that betrayed how he felt. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As soon as the words left his mouth, Derek's glare softened. "Stiles… I want what's best for you," he said in a quiet voice. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Then… can you trust me to make a decision on this?" Stiles asked. "I get it, he's your guy. But… I have a bad feeling."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You're always asking me to trust you," Derek said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"There are things I can't explain without everyone thinking I'm nuts." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What if I promise not to tell anyone what you tell me?" Derek asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles nodded. "Yeah… maybe. If the puppies aren't pressed against the door listening," he said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>With that, Derek nodded, too. "We'll talk. Soon. I'll pick you up from school one day next week—let me know, okay?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He felt like he was being taken seriously, and it made him want to smile. Instead, he nodded. "I'll text you Monday morning." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They had a plan. It felt like Stiles might finally be able to fix some of the weird tension or anger between him and Derek—and hopefully the pack.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But, then, Derek got hurt and dropped off their collective radar. When he reappeared, he was wrapped up in Jennifer Blake and getting payback against the alphas, and Stiles' gut feelings dropped off Derek's radar.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>One more chapter before I crash :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>To conceal himself (and—c'mon, who is he kidding?—to screw with the pack), Stiles applies a lotion that masks his scent before he heads into town. He's not sure about using his new tattoos, and he trusts the lotion because he's used it in previous (and more dangerous) situations. It's a special mix that Caolán developed; he tries not to use it unless he's tracking a feral being because he knows how important scent is to werewolves and he doesn't want to offend anyone. In Beacon Hills, he has no qualms using it to hide his comings and goings through town. They struck first, through Liam (even if it wasn't intentional), and they persisted in trying to follow him when he left the hospital; he is already offended and he feels just in spreading that offense around to the pack. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He buys a phone, texts Jordan so he has the number, and heads to the grocery store. He's craving pizza—and he knows he'll be picking up a Napoli Pizza pizza that night—but he wants to stock his room and vehicle with juice, nuts, jerky, energy bars, and other non-perishable snacks. He likes to be prepared, in case he can't run out to a restaurant because of danger or annoyance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With cans of juice and glass bottles of fizzy water (he doesn't care if someone thinks he's a pampered jerk for buying it; life is short and there's no harm in indulging) placed in his cart, he heads towards the bulk section with the mason jars from his trunk. He wants nuts and dried fruit; if he adds chocolate and coconut, too, he'll have a decent snack to munch on while going between the hospital and his motel room and anywhere else in town. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, Derek finds him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles turns around, a jar half-full of dried cranberries in his hand. At the sight of Derek, his heart feels as if it's turning over in his chest, round and round, and he swallows against sudden dryness in his throat. The weird, squishy feelings he remembered experiencing as a teenager in Derek's presence never fully disappeared with time and distance (or with a grudge the size of Texas weighing on his heart). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey, big guy," he says before turning back to the food bins. "Is this a coincidence or are you tracking me, too?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Too?" Derek echoes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods. "Yeah. Your puppies tried to follow me when I left Dad," Stiles explains. "Really builds on the foundation of trust Liam and Feliks put down." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek steps up to the shelves, so he is standing at Stiles' side instead of behind him. "Parrish told me," he says. "Feliks said it all went fine—except for you not taking the flight back with them—but when I asked, he admitted that they got a little rough with you. Apparently there's still little distinction between asking and forcing. I'm sorry. Really, Stiles. That isn't what I intended—at all."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The apology soothes some of Stiles' irritation. "Thanks," he says.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Liam has been told he's not to approach you again," Derek adds. "If he does, tell me. Or Jordan." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles doubts that will be the end of Liam's injured pride, but he still nods and thanks Derek again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Deaton can give you some mountain ash if you—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I have my own," Stiles interrupts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He puts more cranberries into his jar and jams the scoop back into its container; he turns and walks towards the nuts. Years have passed and the pack is still relying on Alan Deaton. Remembering the reasons for his mistrust, Stiles puts his hand into his pocket and wraps his fingers around the stone. Deaton can't know about the new tree, or else he would have ruined it already; Derek's pack trusts him, so he wouldn't have had any problem going out into the woods and destroying the new growth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the forest, he'd thought about asking Derek if he visits the new tree. In that moment, he knows he can't because if Deaton doesn't know about the nemeton's regrowth, Derek telling him about it would certainly bring it to his attention. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants the pack to thrive, though. Maybe he'll talk to Derek before he leaves town again—or take Derek there if he can be sworn to secrecy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles hums in acknowledgement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How are you?" he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You mean since I stopped coming around or since finding out Dad was shot?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek sighs. Stiles can easily picture him rolling his eyes. "Both," Derek replies. "If you want to tell me. If not. It's fine." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At those words, Stiles turns around. Derek looks… well, Stiles tries to avoid puppy metaphors with werewolves, in general, but he looks as if he's expecting to be hit on the nose with a newspaper. He hates that look on Derek's face. It looks as if Derek has regressed in the last few years, and Stiles does not like that idea very much at all. He's supposed to have his pack. He's supposed to be strong and good and </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm okay… and I'm freaked out," Stiles admits. "You?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Relieved the Sheriff is going to be okay, and that we were able to find you," Derek says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> you find me?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek snorts. "It wasn't easy. Kira refused to help—I know she knows someone who knows you, she mentioned it once before—but she said she couldn't go to them and ask," he says. "Feliks wanted to ask Deaton to try a locating spell, before, when you stopped coming home, but I… it didn't feel right. Not even now." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles arches an eyebrow in silent question. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"In the end, Parrish checked your dad's phone," Derek confesses.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Stiles glances at him. "It's part of our deal. Addresses and phone numbers. I mean, I'm an adult now, so what difference would it make, but…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He wants to know where you are. It makes sense," Derek says. "Do you travel a lot?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Every few months. Sometimes every few weeks."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why?" Derek asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. "Work. Anonymity. Protection." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What do you do?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What do you think I do?" Stiles challenges. "Liam was under the assumption that I'm some sort of hobo drifter." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek shrugs. "All the Sheriff has ever said was that you left school," he says, frowning a little. "I… I thought you wanted a degree." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Some things aren't meant to be," Stiles comments. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still frowning, Derek nods. Stiles doesn't like how serious he looks; he doesn't like the shadow of sadness in Derek's eyes. He wonders what has happened to put that look on his face so easily. Over the years, he kept an eye and ear focused on Northern California for the signs of disaster; he never heard anything, but Derek's mood makes him wonder what he missed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Parrish said you think you know what's going on," Derek says, changing the subject. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"All I told him was that I have a couple things to check out first," Stiles says in response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek snorts again as Stiles starts to put almonds into one of his jars. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Feliks said there was wolfsbane in the Sheriff's system," Derek says. "I just talked to Chris. He hasn't seen any hunters. I haven't seen anything to indicate—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What makes you think they're hunting the pack?" Stiles interrupts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek tilts his head. "Why else would they shoot the Sheriff?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ignoring the opening for a classic joke, Stiles doesn't let Derek's assumption (that Stiles isn't important enough to be a target) sting. It's better that Derek believes Stiles isn't a threat. If he'd been entering a stranger's territory, not announcing his presence and identity would have been a grievous error; if Derek assumes Stiles is mundane, Stiles thinks he might be able to get through his time in Beacon Hills without having to reveal his secrets. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. He twists a lid onto his jar and puts it in the cart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You shouldn't jump to conclusions—or assume," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He surveys the other bulk containers and looks for anything else he might want to add to his snack. As he scoops a mix of cashews and peanuts into his last jar, Derek stays silent. The back of Stiles' neck prickles, so he assumes Derek is watching (or studying) him. He does his best to pretend like it isn't bothering him, but by the time he turns back to his cart, he can feel his shoulders have tensed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"When he's well enough to be released, I'd like you and the Sheriff to stay at the pack house—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Absolutely not," Stiles interjects. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's safer," Derek argues. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles' heart aches. If Derek invites John to the house, wherever it is (although Stiles still assumes it's in or near the preserve, based on the address Jordan gave him), Stiles can't stay and won't be able to see him. Seeing John and being there for him as he recovers soothes the pain of being summoned back to his hometown; if John is at the pack house, Stiles won't be able to visit or help or spend time with his father. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why did you bother looking for me? At all?" Stiles asks, his voice becoming softer instead of louder. "If you're just going to bundle him off to your lair and take care of him there, why? You don't need me here. And if you take him there, I…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I… he wants you here," Derek says. "And I know what he means to you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. With his hands on the cart's handle, he tries to walk away from Derek. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What, Derek?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hates the way his voice sounds brittle and delicate, like he might break apart at any moment; but, that's how he feels, and he can't help his physical reactions. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You'd be allowed to stay—I said—I mean, of course we won't keep you two apart—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Allowed to stay," Stiles mutters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek sighs. "I never knew if you wanted to be here," he argues. "You had one foot out the door ever since—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Since when?" Stiles asks after he leaves his cart behind and walks up to Derek, his voice a whispered hiss. "Because the shit that happened to me in the first two years of this rodeo wasn't enough to send me packing—when any normal person would've fled to Newfoundland to get away from it all. Scott accidentally trying to kill me when he lost control, Peter's extra crazy time </span>
  <em>
    <span>times two,</span>
  </em>
  <span> a giant murderous lizard, Feliks becoming an even bigger dick than he already was, your leather babies trying on their claws, Gerard beating the shit out of me, and the Alpha Pack weren't enough to make me betray you or run. I dug deep and </span>
  <em>
    <span>stayed</span>
  </em>
  <span> through all that and so much more because this was my home and you were my people. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I thought I had done enough to earn some loyalty. I thought maybe I couldn't be like all of you, but I could still help," he continues. "And while I helped whenever one of them barked, when I needed help, none of them bothered. I was a burden. At fault. When I was at my most desperate, I was told I didn't belong. Your pack told me to leave and you let them say that. You assured me I'd have a place here, with the pack, but then you let them tell me otherwise." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Which, I guess, was part of your plan all along, maybe? Let them push me out and do your dirty—or dull—work?" Stiles asks. "You have my brother. Scott. </span>
  <em>
    <span>My dad.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Are you done yet? What else can I possibly give up?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes satisfaction from the way Derek's eyes widen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I… that's not… </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>," Derek breathes.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Then… what?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After opening and closing his mouth a few times, Derek shakes his head—not in a negative response, Stiles doesn't think, but more as if to loosen his thoughts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Please consider staying at the house while your father heals," he says. "I promise… you'll be our guest. Our welcome guest. And we'll do everything in our power to protect you both.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You don't have to stay in the main house, if you're not comfortable. I have a few mini-homes on the property for guests," Derek continues. "All fully furnished. The pack uses them over holidays." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That surprises Stiles. So many packs—including the Hales, at their peak—choose to live in large houses, all together. It sounds like Derek's pack is spread through town, except when they come together—and even then, they are still separated. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We like to be together, so the house has large gathering rooms—kitchen, den, library—but there's only so much soundproofing can do for privacy," Derek explains, as if he knows what Stiles is thinking. "So, if they're staying overnight…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. "Makes sense." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Liam, Isaac, Malia, Cora, and Peter live in the house, and Liam can go to Boyd's while you're here," he adds. "I keep expecting Malia to move out, because Scott's got the apartment over the clinic now that he's a practising partner, but…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"She hates dogs," Stiles says. "The smell of them. Or, she did, anyway."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek's eyes widen. "Oh. That… yeah. I guess that would explain it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After another nod, Stiles gestures behind him. "Sooo</span>
  <em>
    <span>oo</span>
  </em>
  <span> this has been informative, but I've gotta… get shopping so I can go see Dad," he says. "Unless you want to join me on my hunt for energy bars and beef jerky." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek shakes his head. "I've imposed on you enough already," he replies. "Will you think about my offer?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I… yeah, I will," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows he won't be able to think of anything else for at least a few hours. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I hope you'll stay with us," Derek admits. "It… it sounds like we have a lot to talk about. I want to try to fix things between us. Me—the pack, I mean—and you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles watches him walk away. He isn't sure what to make of Derek's choice of words. They sound like the chance for reconciliation, but he isn't sure if that's possible after so many years. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Staring at the tree trunk, Stiles wondered why it stayed hidden—why he could end up there when he was asleep, but couldn't manage it when he was awake. They'd needed to do some sort of effed up sacrifice ritual that felt so </span>
  </em>
  <span>wrong</span>
  <em>
    <span> from the moment Deaton suggested it. But, Scott had been his usual stubborn self, their parents had been kidnapped, and everyone was feeling a little too desperate—Stiles included—to wait to find another solution. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Deaton, for all his bad vibes and cryptic words, had suggested the tree's magic kept it hidden. He didn't understand how Deaton could have found the tree one night, but not a few weeks later. In the absence of an actual explanation, Stiles had no choice but to accept that the tree had hidden itself. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It sucked, though. It was the first time Stiles stood in front of the tree trunk—the nemeton—and felt uncomfortable. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles… Stiles?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He turned at the sound of his father's voice. He was standing next to Melissa and Feliks, who was fiddling with some sort of handheld device. A global positioning device, Stiles realised as soon as he saw it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Dad? Are you okay?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John nodded. "Feliks is just getting the location for Deat—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles was at his brother's side and knocking the device out of his hands before either of them realised what he'd done. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Hey!" Feliks exclaimed. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Absolutely not!" Stiles shouted as he brought his foot down onto the contraption several times. "He has done enough to that tree—and to us! No more!"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>His yelling and Feliks' subsequent growling caught Allison's attention—and, when she walked over, her hands raised as if to calm either twin, Chris followed her so they were grouped together again. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles?" Allison asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"That tree used to focus all the freaking energy around here," Stiles said, struggling to keep his voice calm. "Some intentionally careless assholes chopped it down and used the wood for their own selfish reasons, and all hell broke loose. All the death and pain that followed powered it up. And the Darach used that and built up even more. And we just powered it up with our sacrifices. Now Deaton wants to know where it is, too? Setting aside the shifty nature of that play, because I know no one listens to me, ever, can we just leave the tree alone? Let the energy try to fade out?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks shook his head and started to talk, but Chris raised his hand. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I think… on this, Stiles has a good point," Chris said. When Feliks opened his mouth, he continued to talk. "If its coordinates are known, by anyone, they are a target. If the convergence, as unfocused as it is, falls into the wrong hands, that could be a disaster." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>With Allison and Melissa nodding and John wearing his thoughtful face, Feliks sighed and shrugged.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Fine. I'll just tell Deaton we lost the thingy in the cellar collapse?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Chris nodded. "That would work," he said. He bent down and picked up the pieces. "I'll replace the unit for him if he wants. Probably have something like this in my garage." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah, I think so," Allison said as she looked at the bits of technology. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles relaxed and looked at the tree stump. She felt wrong. He felt wrong. Nothing was right yet—even though they'd saved their parents. Frowning, Stiles looked down at his hands. They were dirty with mud and blood—perfectly normal for a werewolf disaster. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He was so tired. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Allison walked around Chris and stopped at Stiles' side. She leaned into him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What's wrong?" she asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I feel…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She sighed. "Like too little butter spread over a slice of bread?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He sighed, too. "Yeah," he agreed. "Too often, lately, but especially now." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After a nod, Allison leaned into him a little. He needed comfort and she seemed to need comfort; they weren't close but it didn't feel wrong to put his arm around her shoulders and support her. Allison sighed and relaxed against him. It felt almost like relief, when nothing else had yet to work. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks looked from Stiles to Allison. "But… the sacrifice worked," he said. "Deaton was there… you had the visions or whatever…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles held his tongue. He didn't want to remind Feliks that they almost died, for real and again, and he didn't want to explain to his insensitive brother that he felt weird and wrong under his skin and inside his head. It would be a wasted effort; Feliks seemed to care little for internal evaluation. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Allison shrugged. "We don't know what else it did," she said. "But it doesn't feel good." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After clearing his throat, John said, "Well, maybe we should get you guys home so you can rest and recover."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Rest and recover?" Feliks said, laughter in his voice. "You guys just got rescued. You need to rest and recover. We need to go back up our alpha—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I think I'm going to sit it out," Allison interrupted. "Derek's got Scott, you, and the rest of the pack. I… I feel off. Wrong." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>In agreement, Stiles nodded and sighed. The Darach—Jennifer, Julia, whatever her name was—had already destroyed most of the Alpha Pack. Derek had been weakened, from having given Cora a lot of his power, but the pack had given up some of their power, too, and they all seemed to have recovered enough. Stiles worried, because Deucalion wasn't a rogue omega and he definitely wasn't dumb, but he was with Allison on the subject. Two out-of-it humans weren't going to be any help unless Deucalion could manipulate mountain ash to trap everyone behind the barrier. Stiles seriously doubted he had that power. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yes, anyone who was a sacrifice, of any kind, should go home," Melissa declared. "Feliks, why don't you get going?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"We'll get everyone home," Allison assured him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks either forgot that Allison had driven her tiny car or he didn't care. He nodded and took the jeep keys out of his pocket. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Dad?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John smiled at Feliks. "Go help Derek and Scott put an end to this madness—but be careful," he advised. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Once Feliks had fled, taking the jeep with him, they started to move. Chris called for someone to come with the larger of the Argents' vehicles; he took Allison with him, pulling her into a hug.  John reached out and guided Stiles into his body for what should have been his own warm hug. His father's weight against his was reassuring—proof that they both survived being sacrificial lambs—but Stiles didn't feel the warmth he usually did when wrapped up in his arms. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Something was really wrong. Stiles just didn't know what that something was.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles knows he'd been lucky, only running into Jordan or Derek any time he visited the hospital over the last few days, because he also knows when his luck has been used up and he finds himself face-to-face with Malia, Scott, and Feliks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Apparently, orders from one's alpha only last a week. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods at them, but doesn't say anything to them; he chooses to walk to John's side. John is awake and Stiles has prioritised his father's bedside over the three werewolves sitting by his bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey, kiddo," John says. His voice is still weak, still showing signs of physical exertion, but he is smiling and holding out his good arm for Stiles as he approaches. "You bring me any contraband?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. "I think you have me confused with your favourite son," he says, keeping his voice light and his lips curved in a smile. He puts his hand in John's hand and squeezes. "How are you feeling?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Better, almost ready to get out of here." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While he strongly doubts that, because he spoke with the doctor before entering the room, Stiles is glad to hear him say that. John will recover faster if his spirits are high. So, Stiles perches on the edge of his bed, still holding onto his hand, and he nods encouragingly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sure," he agrees. "Just as soon as the doc okays it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John huffs. "You're supposed to spoil me," he mutters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I will, as soon as you're out of here," Stiles says. "I've been taking cooking classes—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh, god," John groans. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"—and I've learned to make so many amazing vegan dishes that don't taste like they're vegan," he continues, undaunted by John's complaint and skeptical glare. "Some are even gluten-free, but you'd never know. Desserts, too, Dad."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So this is what you've been doing?" Scott asks. "Tattoos and cooking classes?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles closes his eyes and silently counts to five. When that's done, he says, "I thought general visiting hours are over. Family-only time until tomorrow."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's pack. We're family," Malia says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles turns his head to look at her. "Yeah? Well, way to go, letting your human pack person get shot with wolfsbane. Where were any of you?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn't their fault. He feels certain that John is either a message or a lure. But, hearing them declare John as pack and family </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he wants to spread around some of that pain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Corey was the—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, because he's a shining example of loyalty," Stiles snarls. "Next, you're going to tell me you've got that psychotic asshole Theo on patrol duty." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott and Feliks growl. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Guys," John says, a warning tone slipping into his weakened voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles inhales a long, deep breath and turns back to face John. He looks disappointed; Stiles hates that he's responsible for putting that expression on his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sorry, Dad," Stiles mumbles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John squeezes his hand. "S'okay," he murmurs. "I know this is tough." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After bowing his head, he says, "I hate that you're hurt… hey, did you give Parrish your statement yet?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John sighs. "We'll talk about that later. You and I are going to go over everything that's been going on," he says. "Just us." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks protests quietly, muttering about the deputies and Derek and how they should all be in the loop; Stiles ignores him in favour of promising John that they will talk. He figures John wants to know what sort of work he's been doing lately. There's no reason for John to think he's bait, as far as Stiles knows; he assumes John wants to use the incident as an excuse to get some private time away from finely honed ears. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Derek said he wants me at the pack house," John adds, before he yawns. After another breath, he asks, "What do you think?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smiles a bit. "If that's where you want to go, then that's where you should go," he replies. "I won't stay there—it's not safe for me—but you should if you want. Make Feliks play nursemaid while I stock your freezer with heart smart meals." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Miss my bed," John grumbles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I bet," Stiles murmurs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Truthfully, Stiles thinks John would be safer inside Derek's property. He worries the hunters would seek him out—and that there could be collateral damage—but he thinks the pack could protect John if they focus on the task and take it seriously. He won't go there, though; aside from the emotional trauma of being surrounded by the people who hurt him, he can't bear to be the reason any of them get hurt if the hunters figure out where Stiles is hiding. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We'll talk about that, too, then," John declares on a whisper and a sigh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sure," Stiles agrees. "You should get some sleep to rest up for all this talking we'll be doing." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stay?" John asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. "Yep. You got me for the rest of the day if you want," he says. "Brought all my work with me." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John smiles and his eyelids flutter as drowsiness rolls into him. "Good… like seeing your face without the screen," he admits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles squeezes his hand. "Me, too," he admits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stays on the edge of the bed until John drifts into a nap, and then he stands. With his back to the others, he rubs a hand over his face. He needs to find the hunters, if that's what they are, and he needs to stop them. He has no problem using any means necessary to achieve those goals; however, since his father is the victim, he suspects any means necessary might attract too much attention. He needs to find evidence upon which the deputies can act. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What's wrong?" Feliks asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nothing," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why do you smell weird?" Malia asks. "I don't know that scent."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott decides it's his turn to talk. "I can't… place it. Just when I think I'm getting close…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Right? It changes!" Malia agrees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán really did a great job with the lotion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It reminds me of how Brent can hide his scent," Feliks says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Satomi's beta?" Malia asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles lets them talk about how he smells—because at least they're not asking him questions—and he pulls his phones out of his pocket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sends a text to Parrish—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Any forensics info you can share?—</span>
  </em>
  <span>and one to Argent—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Any new stolen vehicles?—</span>
  </em>
  <span>on his burner phone. Then, he unlocks his actual phone and checks his messages. The group chat with his social circle in Excelsior has exploded over the last few days; as soon as they all learned his father had been shot, they made sure they expressed their concern for his and Stiles' well-being. Details of his trip are kept in a smaller group chat—although he won't be surprised if they all know by the time he returns. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus and Caolán are the only two who have been sending him private messages—so far that day, anyway. Alec is busy tattooing and can't pick up his phone until his work day is over. Mira has decided that Stiles needs to find the way to resolution by himself, as if he is on a spirit or soul quest of some kind, and she seems to be staying out of his life; her last text message is a vow to be there if he needs her, an order to stay alive, and a wish for good luck and emotional fortitude. Caolán's messages are full of worry; he is a sensitive person, empathetic in his magical leanings, and he often taps into the feelings of those people in his heart when he's worried about them. Stiles has learned not to be too bothered by his gift; it's not like a mate bond since it can only pick up vague impressions, and Stiles can block him if he's having a private moment. Magnus' messages are far fiercer, full of encouragement and threats towards the pack, even though he's missing the details of Stiles' issues with them. He seems to be trying to power Stiles through his stay in Beacon Hills with his own gifts of flirtation and motivation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiles, despite his audience, when he sees Magnus' latest message. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>If any of them give you grief, you remember that you're the great (and sexy) Jimmy Travers, and you're better (and hotter) than a pack of mangy wolves. But don't let that go to your head—stay safe! xo</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He writes back a quick message—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Thanks. I'm doing my best. &lt;3</span>
  </em>
  <span>—and pockets his device. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why do you have two phones?" Malia asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles turns around and shrugs. "Privacy," he replies. "Parrish wanted my number, but I don't want my number tracked." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Like drug dealers and other criminals," she says, nodding. "Are you a criminal?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Stiles almost laughs. "No," he says, although he is sure his activities aren't completely legal. He sees himself as more of a vigilante-slash-mediator than a criminal; he hopes his perspective allows him to skate by the three lie detectors in the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Then, why—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I just like my privacy," Stiles says. He shrugs. "Nothing more than that." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pocket and looks at his lockscreen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I want that lovin' in person. All the cuddles. You, Alec, and me. Maaaagic cuddles ;)</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts at Magnus' response and decides to write one of his own: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm out of cuddle practice. You might be better off with your broody, handsome man. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he can close the screen again, Magnus replies: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just means you need practice. Alec and I will be your cuddle trainers, willing to devote long, hard hours to the trade.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Who are you talking to?" Feliks asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sends a quick message—</span>
  <em>
    <span>You're shameless ;D</span>
  </em>
  <span>—and locks the screen. Then, he looks at Feliks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"A friend," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That guy you called in Oregon?" Feliks pushes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, Stiles asks, "What is this? An interrogation?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks shrugs. "I don't know anything about your life now. All I get from Dad is that you're alive and fine, but he never tells me the details when I ask." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"When you ask?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You think I don't ask about you?" Feliks asks. "You're my brother. Of course I ask." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles feels his frown deepen. His heart burden lightens a little at the thought that Feliks might care about him; his gut burns as he remembers it might be a few years too late to make a difference. Feliks hadn't cared about him when he'd been in danger; Feliks hadn't cared about him when he'd been crushed under the guilt and pain of being possessed compounded with the terror of having been erased from their reality. Nothing he'd done since their werewolf adventure started suggests Feliks really cares about him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So, now that I'm stronger… now that I've learned to live with the post-traumatic shitstorm in my head… now that I have an actual life… now you care," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks frowns and opens his mouth, but Scott speaks before Feliks can say anything. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We always care about you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sneers. "Lie," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott's eyes widen. "Stiles, no—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't put a pretty spin on what I experienced," Stiles growls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I think you guys should go. Give Stiles some time," Derek says from the doorway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Heart pounding at the interruption, Stiles turns to look at him. "If I do anything before I leave town again, I am buying you a bell," he mutters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek snorts. Then he looks at his beta werewolves. "Seriously," he says. "Trying to force it isn't making Stiles feel safe. You're supposed to be better than that."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek reaches out and cups the back of Feliks' neck. Once he pulls Feliks into him, he says, "I know. He's your brother and you miss him. Forcing him to answer your questions, forcing him to do something you want… it won't help fix things between you. How would you feel if he pushed you this way?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know," Feliks whines, sounding more like a child than a man. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So give him some space," Derek advises. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He releases Feliks and nudges him towards the door. Scott follows him, shooting his puppy dog eyes at Stiles as he walks. Malia moves, too, but she stops between Derek and Stiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm glad you have a life," she says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. "Thanks," he whispers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I still want to know about it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiles and shrugs. "We don't always get what we want," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She presses her lips together and nods, before she bows her head in deference to Derek's alpha status and slips out of the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sorry," Derek says. "They… didn't listen." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs again. "Feliks is his son, too," he says. "I can't keep him out of the hospital indefinitely. Not really fair." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek offers a shrug of his own, and he remains silent as he takes the seat Malia vacated. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I get you for company now?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"If it's all right, I promise not to ask any questions about where you've been all this time," he says. "If not, I can go hang out in the hallway." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Knowing that's a decent deal, especially with hunters still in the wind, Stiles nods and settles into his own chair with his laptop. There has to be some sort of evidence of hunting near Beacon County—something he can trace to the people who shot John—and all he has to do is find it. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>The scream in his throat woke him up, sweat beading on almost every inch of skin as he sat up and found Feliks pushing on the mountain ash barrier around his bed. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles! Break it so I can—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>His eyes were glowing and Stiles was reminded of the glowing fireflies he saw in his dream—even though the yellow colours were different. His pulse increased even more and he pushed himself away from Feliks and into the corner of the wall where one post of his headboard stood. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John hurried into the room, not bothering to flick the light switch. He rushed to Stiles' side and pulled him into his arms; he held Stiles close and shushed reassuringly. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I've got you… I've got you," John crooned. "You're safe. I promise." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles sobbed into John's shoulder. It had started out so normal before everything turned wrong. The pain and fear and power in his dream were amazing and terrifying and so incredibly real that Stiles felt as if it were all crashing down on him and everyone he loved. He had no idea how to protect any of them. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"It's just a dream," Stiles whispered.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John nodded as he rubbed Stiles' back. "That's right, buddy," he murmured. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What's wrong with him?" Feliks asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles shuddered and tucked his face into John's shoulder. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Everything </span>
  <em>
    <span>was wrong with him. Since he got into that ice bath, everything was wrong with him on a fundamental level that couldn't be corrected. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"If I had to guess… I'd say post-traumatic stress," John said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"But, he's fine, physically. He didn't die. I don't understand." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John sighed. "Feliks, it was a sacrifice. Scott said they were nearly dead for hours—and while Scott said his experience was remembering the first time he and Allison unknowingly crossed paths, we have no idea what Stiles experienced," he said, his hands still rubbing Stiles' back. "Perhaps, instead of diminishing Stiles' trauma, you try being a bit more compassionate." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Every night, he wakes up screaming," Feliks muttered. "I want it to stop." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"And I'd like your brother to feel better," John said. "Which is what you meant to say, I'm sure." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks sighed. "Yeah, of course. Obviously." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles sniffled. He tried to get a grip. Every time he came close, he saw that door and the darkness and the way it reached for him—</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Easy, buddy," John murmured. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"It's… it's…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John kissed the side of his head. "You want to go get some tea and talk about it?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles lifted his head. John reached up with one hand and wiped Stiles' cheeks. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He nodded. John smiled. "C'mon," he said in a coaxing tone. "Let's see what's in the cupboard." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>On shaky legs, Stiles pushed himself up off the bed. John followed close behind him; his hand hovered against Stiles' back. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Maybe… maybe we should go see Deaton?" Feliks suggested. "He did the ritual… he might know how to fix Stiles." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks' words made Stiles feel even colder and more wrong than he already felt. He stopped walking and glared at Feliks. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I will never willingly go within fifty feet of that man ever again," Stiles snapped. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"He helped us find Dad!" Feliks exclaimed. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles drew in a deep breath. "And I'm glad for that," he said as his chest shuddered with mixed emotions. "But, I will never put my life in his hands again. My life, my choice." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"And we respect that," John said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks swallowed hard and nodded. "Can I talk to him—ask him—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"No," John said, before Stiles could. "Stiles does not want him involved. Respect that. He's not a psychologist. And, since he's connected to events leading up to this… I'm not comfortable with him getting involved more, either." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You're sure?" Feliks asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John nodded. "Yes. The supernatural can't fix everything, Feliks. This… sometimes, we just need time to heal." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The supernatural—magic—can't fix everything, but Stiles wields it as discreetly as he can to shore up the defenses around his family home. With the pack doing their own thing, Stiles takes time in the mornings or evenings to carve sigil magic into the house's bones—where he can access them—and he puts mountain ash in containers by doors and windows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mountain ash won't necessarily stop hunters; it will allow him to push out the pack if he needs them to go or stay away, though. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries not to focus too much on the signs of life continuing on after he left Beacon Hills. As much as he maintains that they forced him out of town, he knows it was his choice to leave without trying to fight or explaining himself. He could have stayed and tried to make a life apart from them; it would have been excruciating, but he could have done it. They shunned him; he'd wanted to shun them in return. Leaving, to him, was the only choice his frazzled, teenage mind could make. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles hates that his father is caught between him and Feliks. It's his only regret for making that choice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries to make it up to John. He doesn't ask questions about the pack; he asks after Feliks in a way that doesn't put John in a position where he has to choose between revealing any pack business he might know and lying to Stiles. He shares as much as he can about his life on the road. He sends postcards and gifts; he meets John in places around San Francisco when their schedules line up and compliment each other. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he adds protections to the house while the rest of the pack spends time at their jobs or at the hospital. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After another week of juggling his time between the hospital, the house, and the motel, John is nearly healed enough to return to the first and Stiles decides to try to load the freezer in the laundry room of the second with healthy meal options. It's been years since Stiles has been able to actively contribute to his father's heart health; he smiles in anticipation of John discovering the meals and giving him grief for his efforts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a trunkful of groceries, Stiles returns to the house and sets up the kitchen in several stations. A large pot is on the stove with broth heating, the cutting board is surrounded by vegetables, a mixing bowl is surrounded by flour, oats, and other baking ingredients. A rotisserie chicken is on the counter, ready to be cleaned; two packets of lean stew beef are in the slow cooker, and all the ingredients for a vegan chili are waiting next to the slow cooker for when it's their turn. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks shows up at the house after Stiles has blended the soup and poured it into mason jars. He's working on the chicken and vegetable stew; he looks up and offers Feliks a small smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks shifts as if he is uncomfortable. Stiles waits and watches to see what he'll say. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm sorry. About Liam. And Oregon," he finally says.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles blinks. That is unexpected, and he tilts his head as he tries to figure out from where this abrupt change in Feliks is coming. He really never understood his brother—not completely—or his motivations—except to say the evidence points to a level of self-centredness Stiles hopes he never achieves—and he suspects someone else is behind Feliks' surprising words. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of picking at the apology (and Feliks), Stiles sucks back his questions, nods, and says, "Thanks." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don't say anything for a little while. Feliks moves further into the kitchen, steering clear of the counters and stove top where Stiles has been working. In response, Stiles keeps his body language loose and relaxed as he continues to chop, mix, and stir. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You've been keeping busy," Feliks comments. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. "Yeah… figured I might as well."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You know Dad's heart is fine, right?" Feliks says. "He eats healthy—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are we talking about the same Dad?" Stiles asks. "The one who had a drawer full of cookies and pop tarts in his office? The one who used his dispatch radio and a special code to order fries from the diner while he was on patrol?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I think he still has the cookie drawer," Feliks admits. He smiles and shrugs. "He eats supper at the pack house a lot, though, and between that and the lunches Erica brings for him—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Erica makes him lunch?" Stiles interrupts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, Derek does a lot of the cooking for the deputies—and Dad—so I guess Erica's just transport." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>God damn it, Derek.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's very hard to hate the pack when they seem to be taking care of John. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of expressing his conflicted emotions, Stiles nods and shrugs before setting the jars of soup on the kitchen table. When he turns back, he sees Feliks studying him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nothing… just… it's nice to see you here again," Feliks says with a shrug of his own. He leans against an empty space on the counter. "Missed you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sighs. "Yeah, I missed you, too," he replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Think you'll ever come back? For good?" Feliks asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That's a tricky question to answer and Stiles hesitates as he looks into his brother's eyes. Helping the pack and defending Beacon Hills had been his mission through high school. He now has a new mission, even if it is similar. He isn't an idiot and he doesn't assume returning home would mean he would be welcomed back into the fold; if he returns, he is sure he would be expected to live a life on the outside of their activities. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Would it put even more strain on John, having Stiles there so his exclusion was even more obvious? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What if they offered him a place in the pack? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Assuming it was a genuine offer, and not one to ease his father's difficulties of having one son on the outside, Stiles isn't sure he can trust the pack with all of him. They destroyed him, in some ways. It took a long time to recover and build a new life. Jimmy Travers, his alias, is too important to be used or abused by them. They won't understand. They won't value the contributions he could make—or they will value them too much and insist he only work for them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't think </span>
  <em>
    <span>Derek</span>
  </em>
  <span> would take advantage of him, but he doesn't trust the betas in the same way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No… probably not," he says after considering the question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks frowns. "Ever?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I… I don't know," Stiles admits. "I'm not dumb enough to say 'never,' because I know things can change, but… with the way I feel now, no." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We miss you. All of us," Feliks says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. "Well… too bad, I guess?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You can be such an asshole," Feliks mutters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What do you want me to say?" Stiles asks, bristling at Feliks' words. "All's forgiven?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks raises his hands a bit. "I guess?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, then, you're an asshole, too," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We are twins," Feliks concedes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Stiles snorts and nods. He moves back over to the stove and checks on the chicken dish; the sauce is thickening and everything seems to be cooking according to the recipe. With that done, he walks over to the slow cooker; the meat is on the highest and fastest setting and only has another hour to go. He'll make a sauce to go with it, and then John can have messy sandwiches or use it to make nachos or tacos. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What have you been up to lately?" Stiles asks. "Still teaching?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks nods, his smile softening. "Yeah. I'm coaching lacrosse now, too." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey, great," Stiles replies. He frowns. "What happened to Finstock?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Retired. He has property on the outskirts of town. </span>
  <span>Alpaca farm," Feliks says. When Stiles blinks, completely dumbfounded by that news, Feliks chuckles. "I know! He spins their wool, sells it at the Saturday market. He runs a knitting club." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Seriously?!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles cannot picture it—but, he kind of can, all at the same time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks is still laughing a little when he says, "Yeah. He even went to Derek and made sure we wouldn't be running around his precious babies on the full moon. He made his fences out of mountain ash, to protect them." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That is… adorable," Stiles says. "Kind of creepy, too, but mostly adorable." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He still comes to the games. He heckles me instead of the players," Feliks tells him. "You should come to the next one. It's next Friday. Then we have a charity match the next week after that. If you're still here…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Maybe," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he returns to stir the stew, Stiles sighs. "Just… let me think about it, okay? I haven't seen all of you yet and any time I run into you and your packmates, I have to suppress the urge to throttle all of you," he confesses. "I don't think I'm up to trying to be friendly with you, together, yet." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So far, he's only interacted with Feliks, Liam, Peter, Scott, Malia, Derek, and Jordan. He caught sight of Erica and Isaac a couple of times, but he managed to avoid them before they caught up to him. Lydia, Boyd, Cora, and anyone else they've collected over the years have mostly stayed off his radar since that first day and he mostly hopes they'll continue to do so. The idea of facing them all together isn't very appealing; it makes him burn with anger and sway with nausea if he thinks about it too hard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You call how you're acting 'friendly?'"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles meets Feliks' gaze. "How do you want me to act? You want me to hug everyone like nothing happened?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks shrugs. "It's been a long time, Stiles," he says. "Maybe what we did wasn't… right. But, you're the one who cut us all out of your life." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're kidding me, right?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You left—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh my god," Stiles breathes. He consciously puts the spatula down so he doesn't throw it at Feliks' head. "Did you really think I'd stick around after what you all said to me—after everything I lost for your furry asses? Did you think what you said gave you any access to me or my life?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nope. You have no point," Stiles says. "I'll stay for now because Dad is important, no matter what—but then I'm gone again." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks frowns. "I didn't come to you for nursemaid duties…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No? So it was just to rub my nose in the fact that you got everything, then?" Stiles asks. "Completely unnecessary, bee tee dubs. You made that point already—I know you got Dad, the pack, and the town. I've known the score since we were kids." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After flinching, Feliks' shoulders stiffen and his fists clench. "I got Dad, sure. Which is why he begged us to find you before the first surgery," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs and turns back to the stove. He doesn't know what to think or say, so he's going to focus on making his stew. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The key. The message. The wrapping paper. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The gaps in his memory. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It didn't add up to much, but what it did add up to only made the pit of dread in Stiles' stomach grow. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He thought back over the last few weeks. The nightmares from his sacrifice-related trauma had increased and intensified; the door was open, and the wispy figure beyond it had a gaping maw and a hunger that couldn't be sated. He woke up every night; he no longer shouted, his body locked tight in paralysis and tears and sweat on his face. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When he was awake, it wasn't unusual for words to lose their meaning. Their comprehension slipped past his mind; they looked like random jumbles. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He wanted to tell someone. But his voice was as lost to him as the words on the page. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles was slipping away—from the people he loved, from his life, and probably from the world. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When he tried to pinpoint his unwilling retreat, he first thought it happened during the sacrificial ritual, but he wasn't sure about that. The gaps in time started </span>
  </em>
  <span>after </span>
  <em>
    <span>rescuing Kira, after he put his life in danger—again. At first, he thought maybe she'd zapped him with her new-to-her kitsune powers (once he learned that's what she was), and he was suffering from brain damage on top of everything else. He dismissed that theory; the spidery scar that looked like evidence of a lightning strike was only a hallucination because no one else saw it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Either he was something like a kanima, where he couldn't remember doing bad things, or he was losing his mind similarly to the way his mother did. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After sitting on his bed for a couple hours, lost in thought, he reached for his phone and called Scott. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He needed an outside opinion. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles! Perfect timing!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles frowned. "How so?" he asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott replied, </span>
  </em>
  <span>"We're at the school—Feliks tracked that scent here, and there's a box inside a mountain ash circle—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Inside the building?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nah, outside. The soccer field."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles looked at his notes—the list of evidence, and gaps in time he could remember—and he tried to figure out what the box could be. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Could he have put it there? Why would he have put a box, inside mountain ash, on the soccer field? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>If he were a villain in a comic book, the mountain ash would only serve as a lure for werewolves. It would only make them think it was something being kept from them—something important, like a real clue, maybe. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The scent trail was something else meant to lure the wolves. It could be inadvertent. But, if the bad guy knew about werewolves' abilities, scent would be another low key weapon against them. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The box wasn't hidden. It was out in the open. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I don't think you should be there," Stiles said. "It sounds like a trap." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know, but—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Scott, please get out of there," Stiles interrupted. "Call the police—let them bring a bomb tech or something. Just… get out of there." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott sighed and yielded. </span>
  </em>
  <span>"Yeah, okay. Okay. Do you need something?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah. Can you meet me at home?" Stiles asked. "I need to run something past you. A theory."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sure. I'll just need to take Kira home," </span>
  <em>
    <span>Scott replied. </span>
  </em>
  <span>"Can it wait, like, an hour?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles guessed he wouldn't see Scott until tomorrow, if his mind held up for another day. He told Scott that was fine; he hoped it would be. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The next time he walks into the hospital room, a lot of the pack is there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam actually has the nerve to growl at him, stopping only when Jackson, of all people, slams his elbow into his side. Stiles almost startles at the sight; he forgot Jackson had returned to them after he left. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't. Just because he got one over on you, don't be a dick," Jackson says. "He's the Sheriff's son, and Feliks' brother—and he's saved most of our lives at least once. Show some respect." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surprised and touched by Jackson's show of support, Stiles nods at him. Jackson nods back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John is watching Liam warily, but he smiles when Stiles enters into his line of vision. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles can't get close to the bed unless he's willing to push past the werewolves. Erica, Cora, and Isaac are on the side of the bed closest to Stiles; Boyd, Scott, and Malia are on the other side; Feliks, Lydia, Jackson, and Liam are along the wall opposite the bed. Stiles doesn't want to be close to any of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Guess you're feeling better, if the gang's all here," Stiles says, smiling at his father. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Most of them. They're just finally catching me up on everything I missed," John explains, "now that I can stay awake for more than an hour at a time." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He is doing a lot better. Stiles expects he'll be released soon. His wounds are healing, he's having daily physical therapy appointments, and the last time Stiles spoke with the doctor, he learned John is nearly out of the woods in terms of complications. They'll have to decide soon if John will return home or go to the pack house for the last of his recovery. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That's great," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"C'm'ere," John insists. "Sit with me. Please?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles swallows hard. He doesn't want to show weakness in front of the pack (especially Liam), but he doesn't want to be with </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of them while he's with John. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can't make John feel as if he has to choose between him and the pack; it kills him to do, but he knows he has to make that choice for him. He knows his father loves him, but he knows John also loves Feliks—as he should—and Feliks comes with the pack. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head. "I… hey, you look like you've got all the company you need for right now," he says. "I'll give you guys some time." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Just not in a party mood, okay? I'll be back later, I promise," he interrupts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes don't sting until he is in the hallway, five doors down from John's room. Stiles keeps walking; when a hand curls around his arm, he falters long enough to see Melissa, and then he stops. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles? What's wrong?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nothing," he lies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Did you see your dad?" Melissa asks. "He's okay, right?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. "Yeah… yeah. Looks like he's getting out of here soon," he says. "The, uh, the pack's in there with him now. It's a little crowded." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her gaze softens, as if she understands some of what he's feeling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They care about him," she says. "Between me and Derek, we tried to keep them away, but…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah," he says, sighing. "I know. I don't want to be around the pack, though, so I'll come back later." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, Melissa asks, "Whatever happened… is there no way to fix it?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fix it?" Stiles repeats. He remembers that she told him she thought they'd had a difference of opinion—something that could be fixed with talking and apologies. At her nod, he says, "They told me that I should leave Beacon Hills. I'm just doing what they wanted. There's nothing to fix." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What? But… why would Derek—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It wasn't Derek," Stiles corrects her. "I mean, he didn't do great, but he wasn't one of the ones who showed me the door." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the realisation that Scott was one of the people who cast Stiles out, Melissa's eyes widen. She puts a hand over her mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's… don't worry about it," Stiles says. "I can't live here and stay out of it—not after what I've seen. And I did need to figure out some way to recover from everything. Leaving… gave me that. I have boundaries with the people in my life now—you know how nice it is to have regular secrets and no one to sniff them out? So amazing." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How… after everything… he really told you to leave? I'm going to give him a piece of my mind—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't give him a hard time, okay?" Stiles asks. "It's done." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melissa studies him. "Stiles, I'm sorry, no, I cannot let this go," she says after a moment. "I am going to crucify him. If only I could still ground him and take away his… his </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything!"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Melissa…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We're supposed to be family," she says. "This is… what they did is… it's just </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sighs and nods. He's tired of pretending. He's </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired,</span>
  </em>
  <span> emotionally, in general. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're coming back later?" Melissa asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smiles. "Yeah. Probably around supper," he assures her. "Just in time for Dad to complain about his tray."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Melissa huffs out a little laugh. "Sounds like him," she murmurs. "I know he misses Derek's cooking." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn't cut as deeply the second time he hears that John eats meals with the pack. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I also loaded up the extra freezer with a lot of food," Stiles admitted. "He'll have plenty of options for a little while." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You cook?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles ducked his head after nodding. "Yeah. And bake. Had to grow up, right? Can't live off of pizza and store bought cookies forever." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melissa squeezes his arm. "You're a good guy," she says in a warm voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I try to be," he says. He smiles and shrugs. "I better get moving. Have to make a few calls and check in with Parrish… see if they have any leads." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods. "See you later, okay?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He walks away, heading to the elevator without anyone else interrupting his exodus. It isn't until he gets to the exit that he runs into anyone else. He doesn't crash into Derek and Jordan, but he isn't able to completely dodge them, either; they're mid-conversation, so they don't notice him until Stiles tries to veer out of their way. Derek starts to reach out as if to stop him and the movement is aborted when he holds himself back at the last second. His fingers curl, not a clench but close, and then he seems to settle at Jordan's side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're not staying?" Derek asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. "Seriously?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The Sheriff—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Has almost a whole pack upstairs," Stiles says. "Room's too crowded for me." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek frowns. "Oh. He thought you might… if he's there, too. He hoped."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Having Liam growl at me isn't exactly an invitation," Stiles interrupts. "Thank Jackson for me, though, okay? It was nice to be defended—and I can't believe Jackson defended me. It's like a sign of the apocalypse." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan snorts. "He grew up a bit." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is he a deputy, too?" Stiles asks. "Because, if so, I'm hightailing it out of here." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nah, he's actually running the county's youth centre," Jordan tells him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles' smile is genuine when it stretches his lips. He loves the idea of Jackson helping kids—both because that means Jackson is getting all the attitude he used to deal out to his peers aimed back at him and because he couldn't have picked a better career for Jackson to allow him to channel all of his experiences, from being adopted and feeling out of place to wanting more and doing anything to achieve it (and having to accept the consequences that came with those actions). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That is really great," Stiles says. He lets his smile fade, and then he asks, "Any ballistics leads?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Officially, you know I can't talk to you about that," Jordan says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Unofficially?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan shakes his head. "Not enough to get a match to anything, so far," he replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Damn it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek nods. "I know… it would've been nice to catch them before they try again," he says. "We're doing extra patrols. And I'm still going to keep watch here."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That's assuming they're after Dad, specifically, and not m—anyone else," Stiles points out, gesturing a little wildly with his hands in an attempt to cover up the slip he almost made. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We can handle it," Derek says. "We know what type of wolfsbane they're using. Everyone has some of the strain, just in case." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles frowns. "How do you know what strain it is?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Deaton did some sort of test on a sample of the Sheriff's blood," Derek tells him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles feels his jaw drop. Apart from his forays in ritualistic magic, Deaton has never shown any sort of gift like that which would be required for a separation of substances on that small a level. Stiles can't do something like that. Magnus, Eliot, or Margo might be able to—they're far more powerful and skilled than they allow themselves to appear; Magnus is, in Stiles' experience, particularly adept at healing work—but it would take a lot of energy to sift and refine particles if a potion couldn't do it. Stiles hasn't been around Deaton in years and, when he was, he hadn't tapped into his own powers; he might have missed Deaton's hidden aptitude. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, Stiles doubts it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Magic test?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I guess?" Derek replies. "He diluted drops with a few liquids before the solution turned bright pink. And he said that meant the strain of the plant." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Potions aren't Stiles' strongest skill. It's probably possible… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The alternative means Deaton probably has some sort of inside information about the strain the hunters are using—and Stiles doesn't like that option </span>
  <em>
    <span>at all.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Deaton spent years (barely) protecting Derek's pack after he allowed ruin to come to the Hales. Why would he risk endangering his ties to Derek, Scott, and the others by helping someone shoot the Sheriff? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighs and runs a hand over his head and through his hair. "You guys better get up there with the others. I have a couple things to do," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows he needs to leave. He feels settled, standing next to Derek, in a way that betrays the way his insides flutter when they make eye contact. Old feelings don't necessarily listen to sense. It wouldn't work; he knows that. In the beginning, Derek had shown Stiles that he was trying—even if it didn't always work out the way he'd planned. Now, Stiles isn't sure what to think except that too much has happened and they're no longer even close to understanding each other. He doesn't even know if they could try to be friends; he doesn't know how their lives could intersect, even a little, with the decisions and connections they've both made (and broken). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the thought of the pack, Stiles realises he hasn't seen Peter since he first arrived. He looks from Jordan to Derek and says as much. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Peter's looking into a few things," Derek admits. "Rental properties. Ammunition sales. Stuff like that." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Have you heard from him recently?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek says, "Less than an hour ago. He's fine." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's probably right. Of all the pack, Peter is the most street smart, conniving, opportunistic werewolf Stiles has ever met. But, with hunters lurking around town, Stiles still worries about him. He might have caused a lot of their problems, but he also helped Stiles once. He has a lot of mixed feelings when it comes to Peter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks at Derek, feeling that telltale warm and swooping feeling in his heart, despite everything, and he nods past it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's okay," he says. "Just… thinking. Go on and have your pack time." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek nods, even though he's frowning. "Will I see you later?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Probably, big guy," Stiles replies. "Small town and all." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He slips past them and towards the door before anyone can stop him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>In the cloud of sedation, Stiles could barely feel anything at all. No sinking pit of fear, no flutters or squirms… just warmth and calm with a vague sense that something was very, very wrong. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Melissa's hand was on his forehead, stroking his damp hair off of his face. He could hear the beeping monitor that detects his pulse and oxygen levels. He could smell antiseptic. But, Melissa was with him and he knew he would be fine—until the next disaster.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What the hell, Melissa?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles wrinkled his nose at the sound of Rafael's voice. He disliked that man for what he put Scott and Melissa through, even though it seemed like he changed his life, and he </span>
  </em>
  <span>haaated</span>
  <em>
    <span> him for the way he'd made his father's life more difficult. He had no idea against what John's career was stacked; he had no idea why Beacon Hills had so many unsolved, weird crimes. But he talked down to John, smugness written all over his smug face, and acted like he could have done better. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ugh, Stiles wanted Rafael </span>
  </em>
  <span>gone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I don't know, Rafe," Melissa whispered, unaware that Stiles could hear them. "He's been… he had something happen before the summer, and we assumed that was what started the nightmares and sleepwalking. But…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Didn't his mother lose her mind?" Rafael asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>A human sound of anger, coming from the doorway, prevented Melissa from answering his question. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Feliks!" Melissa exclaimed. "He's leaving. Come in and sit with Stiles, okay?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Why is he here?" Feliks demanded. "This isn't a Bureau case. It's a family matter." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah, and you're doing a bang up job with that," Rafael shot back at him. "Stiles could have died while you were all apparently looking for him." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"We would have found him," Feliks insisted. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Why don't you have him at a facility if he's such a danger to himself?" Rafael asked. "Too expensive?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks started shouting again; his shouting infuriated Rafael, who started shouting back at him. Turning away from the sounds of their quarrel, Stiles whimpered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Melissa moved away from Stiles. He registered the lack of a hand in his hair and missed the comforting contact. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Enough. Both of you—get out," she said in her best Nurse McCall voice. "Feliks, you can come back when your father arrives."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After they stomped out, the hand returned to his hair. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Easy, Stiles," Melissa murmured. "They're gone and you're safe…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Scared," Stiles whispered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She made a soft crooning noise before speaking. "I know… I know," she said. "But, Feliks is here and he'll protect you. He sounds scary just because wolves can only communicate through growling. They need to learn how to use their words." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She misunderstood why he was scared. Still, he found that she made a good point.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next time he's at the house, it isn't Feliks who shows up to try to spend time with him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson waits when Stiles opens the door; when Stiles steps back and gestures with his hand, Jackson comes inside and raises his sunglasses so they sit on top of his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hi," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is something… wrong?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson scoffs and doesn't say anything.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles closes the door, rolling his eyes behind Jackson's back, and then he starts off towards the kitchen. He'd been cleaning a couple of his weapons, for the lack of something useful to do, when Jackson interrupted him, and he figures he might as well get back to doing that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson follows him at a leisurely pace. He stops at one of the small pots of mountain ash. "Seriously, Stilinski?" he comments. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That's for me," he says. "I don't expect Dad will ever use it, since he's pretty fond of you guys, but while I'm here, I want to be able to lock out certain people when they get on my nerves or take too many liberties." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What the hell?" Jackson asks. "Why are you avoiding us?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles whirls around to give Jackson a piece of his very frustrated mind, but then he remembers that Jackson left town before Stiles was even considering doing the same. He sighs and deflates; he is so, so sick of (trying to avoid) this conversation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You weren't here. Things happened," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson hums. "I wondered… no one really talks about you anymore, except for the Sheriff—and Derek. He asks about you after dinners when the Sheriff shows up," he says. "And I've never seen you here since you left for school." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, things happened," Stiles repeats. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Lydia talks about you sometimes, too," Jackson adds. "She still calls me, when she screams—or when she feels like she's about to scream." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That makes Stiles frown. Lydia senses him—enough to feel a scream building when he's in danger of dying? He feels like that should be impossible; after everything that happened, she shouldn't care about him enough to have access to whatever part of him that banshees could read or sense. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He also isn't wild about her having some sort of connection to him. He has runes and sigils inked into his flesh to prevent him from being accurately tracked by magical means. She shouldn't be able to connect to him because of that—apart from any feelings or care she might still hold for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"When?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson pulls out his phone and flips through what looks like a calendar. "Last year, the twenty-third of March," he replies as he reads the screen. "And… Hallowe'en. The year before… June fifth and sixth. She didn't sleep; she was terrified for you. Oh, and the thirteenth of August, that year, too. Nothing lately." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sucks in a small, sharp breath with every date Jackson lists. He'd been working jobs on all of those dates; he remembers each one, and he knows they were more dangerous than other jobs he'd worked during that time frame. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What are you doing?" Jackson asks. "What is so dangerous? You come here, all tatted up, and with </span>
  <em>
    <span>knives</span>
  </em>
  <span>—" he says, gesturing towards the table "—and you feel different than you used to." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fight club," Stiles lies, smirking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson rolls his eyes. "I'm not leaving until I get some answers," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Then, you better make yourself comfortable," Stiles says in response. "Because the pack doesn't get access to my life anymore." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What did we do?" Jackson asks. "And by 'we,' I mean 'them,' clearly." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. "I know." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson sits down at the table. After looking at him for a moment, Stiles goes to the fridge and offers him a drink. Jackson requests beer—even though the alcohol doesn't affect him—and Stiles decides he can risk a beer, too. Jackson might be a pain in the ass, but he isn't usually deceitful. He rarely schemes effectively; his attacks are much more direct. Stiles can afford to let down his guard a little bit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With their drinks on the table, Stiles takes his seat in front of his knives and their towels and cases. He sips his beer and watches Jackson; Jackson sits back away from the table, relaxed despite their conversation topic, and he seems to be waiting for Stiles to make a move of some kind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They told me that I should leave, okay?" Stiles says. "Not Derek or Peter, but all the other betas at the time. And then Liam tried to force me into their car to leave Washington, and we had a fight—that's why we're not getting along."  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson smirks. "I really don't like him," he says. "I get why he was bitten… and it's better than letting him die, but… there's only room for one asshole lacrosse star in the pack, and we already have two." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Stiles snorts. "You and Feliks? What does that make Scott and Isaac?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Please. They're hardly stars—no matter what Finstock ever said. They didn't get good until they were bitten. We were already the best." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles leans forward on one elbow. "Why was Liam bitten? What happened?" he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Car accident," Jackson replies. "Derek and Erica found the wreck while running border checks. He was bleeding out. Erica recognised him from a continuing ed class she had to take at community college, a couple years ago… she thought he was okay, if a little quiet. Derek bit him to save his life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But, what they didn't know is that he's got such a short fuse it makes me look like a friggin' zen master—and that the accident was his fault because his road rage is intense," he continues. "He runs a gym in town—a big mixed-martial arts outfit. Makes sense. Loose canons are always armed somehow." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, Stiles thinks that the backstory explains a lot about his encounter with Liam. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson sighs and leans forward on the table. "So, they actually said you should leave? Feliks and Scott and everyone else?" he asks. "What did Derek say?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Derek has that whole I'm-the-alpha-but-you're-my-pack, democracy-but-not-quite thing going on. He accepted it," Stiles says. He shrugs. "He basically wished me well and told me I can come back on breaks and after university… but how could I? I wouldn't have much of a life, worrying on the sidelines. There'd be no separation or privacy from them, because they could guess everything I'm up to with their super senses. I couldn't stay." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson frowns. "That's changing," he says. "It took a few years. Still a work in progress. Theo was the first step towards that—y'know, how he tried to get Scott to kill Derek... I mean, you were there, right? I heard the fucker bit it while running from Monroe's hunters… what a shame. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But after all that, Derek sort of… he… it's like he's fighting something, all the time. It took a while for Derek to realise that teenage rebellion was actual disrespect and disregard. It's been a struggle." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles frowns, too. "What happened?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He laid out a challenge—beat me in one-on-one combat, without shifting, or show your bellies and submit. It didn't fix everything, but it made them try a bit, finally, too," Jackson tells him. "That was a fucking terrifying meeting, let me tell you. I came back from London, for good, a few weeks before it happened. Malia almost killed him." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles doesn't like the sound of that at all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Who fought?" he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Scott. Derek made quick work of that fight. Then, Isaac, which was surprising, but I guess he didn't like that Scott had gotten his ass thrown into a tree," Jackson says, looking up at the ceiling as he counts off Derek's opponents. "Then, Erica and Feliks. Dirty and weird fights, respectively, but they didn't last long. Feliks got shut down pretty hard, too. Lydia fought him, only because she wanted to give Derek a break, and because you know how she hates to be left out. And then Malia. She full-on lost control in the middle of the fight and sliced him deep with her claws. Instant disqualification, because control was part of the challenge. It took Peter, Cora, and Jordan to hold her back and get her to calm down." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You didn't fight him? Or Peter?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson shakes his head. "No way. Derek tries. That's a lot more than others would do—and have done, because my last alpha turned out to be… well, in a word, despicable. And I wanted to come home," he replies. "I think Peter's actually happier now… with whatever business stuff he and Derek do to keep busy. Much more his sort of scheming, y'know?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Since Peter had suggested that he sometimes receives offers to kill people, Stiles can believe that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Boyd just bent his neck and swore he'd try to do better. And Ethan didn't want the power—anything to remind him of his days under Deucalion's thumb, y'know," Jackson added. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Ethan's here, too, now?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Jackson says, "Yeah. Still together, too, if that's your next question." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smiles. "I'm glad," he murmurs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you seeing anyone?" Jackson asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a shake of his head and a shrug, Stiles says, "Not seriously. Or at all. I travel too much." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And I suppose you've got some issues about letting people get close, after dealing with those idiots," Jackson adds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That, too," Stiles agrees. He downs a couple mouthfuls of beer and then decides to change the subject. "Parrish said you run a youth centre. What's that like?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Uh… driving at double the speed limit and being stuck in the slowest traffic jam, all at the same time," Jackson replies. He grins over his beer bottle at Stiles. "It's really great. Crazy and frustrating, but great. We deal mostly with queer and gender issues, some homelessness, some trauma… but it's really about being a safe, inclusive place." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smiles back at him. "That sounds really awesome," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Jackson says, "It's taken a while to get all the kinks worked out. I've got the place working pretty well now, I think. Fundraising is my least favorite thing—I'd much rather be hanging out with the kids—but Lydia helps with the event planning and the Hales donate enough that I'm not always begging the town for money. Argent, too, but I think that's to tidy his business' image. Not gonna turn that down, though." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Very cool," Stiles comments as he makes a mental note to look up the place and donate a little money regularly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah. So. Uh, what are you doing now?" Jackson asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's another sign of the apocalypse that Jackson's question feels like genuine interest, without demand or any sense of ownership that the other betas easily manage. Stiles is enjoying the conversation and he wants it to continue. He never thought he'd ever say that about a chat with Jackson Whittemore. For the first time since he returned, Stiles decides he'll tell Jackson (most of) the truth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mediating, mostly," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So… like social work?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. "Yeah, sort of. Mostly conflict resolution, but sometimes, yeah, I guess it's a little like social work." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Private practice?" Jackson inquires. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I… yeah. I get jobs through a couple friends who work like headhunters," Stiles explains. "I travel to where the issue is—mostly in North America—and try to fix it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Good money?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs again. "It pays the bills," he says, wanting to avoid talking about how werewolves and other supernatural beings can't hire regular, everyday people to mediate territory disputes or other conflicts so his rates can be pretty high depending on where he travels for the work and on what is involved. He sighs. "It can be boring, but sometimes it's the kind of work that needs a lot of research or gets pretty keyed up pretty fast. I like that it's different. Helping people is a bonus." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson nods as he inspects his beer bottle. "I can see it," he says. "Why don't you use those skills and talk to the pack?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Ugh." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You should talk to someone," Jackson insists. Then, he narrows his eyes as he studies Stiles. "Did you ever see a therapist or talk to anyone after any of it?" he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Who could I talk to?" Stiles asks. "It's not like supernatural therapists are listed in the yellow pages." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smirking, Jackson says, "Yellow pages? How old are you? Eighty?" Stiles splutters as Jackson chuckles; after a minute, Jackson leans back in his seat. "I have a couple names if you want them." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Seriously?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Of course, I'm serious. I mean, you could talk to Isaac, he's the school counsel—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The guy who told me my fear smells good? No," Stiles vetoes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, I figured that would be a no-go," Jackson agrees. "But, I have a person I used when I was in London. She's based in Scotland, so sometimes she's hard to understand, but she helped me figure things out. If you don't like her, she might have names of other therapists." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Truthfully, Stiles never considered seeking professional help. He knows supernatural beings, like werewolves and magic users, have mundane jobs; he knows those in professions where confidentiality is a requirement can separate work from their packs or other groupings. But, he hadn't wanted to make himself vulnerable, in the beginning, and he was able to pretend he's fine once he started working at Jimmy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shakes his head. "I'm fine." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It sounds like you have a lot to unpack," Jackson pushes. "And I know things got harder for you after I left. I'm sorry. Y'know. If I piled on by not being helpful." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Honestly, you weren't even close to registering on my problem scale," Stiles says. He sighs and sips from his bottle of beer. The fizzy liquid soothes his dry throat. "By the time I realised I was really drowning, it was too late." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What helped?" Jackson asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Traveling. Learning," Stiles says, thinking both about school and his magic lessons. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the first year after Beacon Hills, he practically lived at the library. His roommate had been focused on the social experience of university; spending time at the library meant he could have some peace and quiet. Magic learning had come later, after an accident with a friend's mason jar candles. He'd worked alone for a while, before another magic user found him. That meeting had been educational, as had a few more that followed, but it wasn't meant to be. They had different priorities—more selfish priorities—and Stiles had known from the start that he wants to help and be useful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mira understands his motivation. What he learned on his own and with the guidance of a few other people before her became an interconnected web of abilities with her support. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Feliks said you never finished school…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. "There's more than one way to learn," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson nods. "That's true," he concedes. Then, he sighs. "It is so fucking weird that you aren't with us," he admits, looking at Stiles with wide, sincere eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They made their choice." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Jackson. Enough." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He seems to accept that—or, at least, he makes a placating gesture with his raised hands, palms out, and stops talking about reconciliation with the pack. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a minute, he gestures towards the knives. "They remind me of Allison," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Ring daggers," Stiles agrees, smiling a little as he thought about how fierce Allison had been. "Turns out, they're a good weapon. Easy to hold." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you a hunter?" Jackson asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles scowls at the suggestion. "Never," he vows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Then, what's with the knives?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know what you want me to tell you—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson frowns. "The truth—if you can." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before meeting Jackson's eyes, Stiles looks at the knives. The last time he used them was to free a trapped werewolf from a hunter's trap; the rescued beta was a teenager, barely older than Scott had been when he was bitten. The time before that had been one of Lydia's near screams; a feral were</span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> had been terrorising a pack and the surrounding community. He'd hated that job from start to finish, but the pack had been too scared to call for hunters and had reached out to him instead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The truth is I'm not the useless doppelgänger anymore." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson's frown fades into a more contemplative expression. Stiles turns his attention to his blades; he wipes them down until he is satisfied they're free of grit and anything else that could damage them, and then he carefully tucks them into their sheaths. When he looks up again, Jackson is still watching him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You were never useless," Jackson says. "A pain in my ass. Annoying. Yes to both of those, but never useless." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs, but remains silent on the issue. Jackson wasn't there when the pack cast him away, but he never made it easy for Stiles when he was there. He remembers Jackson's words just as easily as he remembers their words and he still feels the pain they inflicted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is that what they said to you?" Jackson asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Some of it," Stiles admits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson rolls his eyes. "Christ, you're all idiots," he complains. "Before I left, you never would have believed that. They never would've said it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Stiles cackles. "Are you kidding me? You told me I'm useless all the time!" he exclaims. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson says, "I didn't mean it! You should've known that!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How?!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shrugging, Jackson sighs. "I thought you knew I was just being an ass," he says. "I'm sorry. You saved me—all of us." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know," Stiles comments. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson frowns. "So… guess we can't fix it?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why bother?" Stiles asks. "You've got your lives. I've got mine. I think we're on different paths now." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"If Derek asks?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shakes his head. Derek might have softened the blow, and he might have shown some sort of support or concern for Stiles, but Derek doesn't want him back. And, even if he did, Stiles isn't sure if he should stay. He can't trust most of the pack. He doesn't know if Derek would approve of his career choices. He doesn't think he can let bygones be bygones and join the pack again—if an invitation is offered, which it won't be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'd need to be on equal footing," Stiles explains. "I'd need to see proof of change. I can't come back for more of before… I think that ship has sailed. Just… drop it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows Jackson won't drop it; he can see the stubborn jut of his jaw. Jackson is thinking. Stiles frowns and shakes his head. It's nice to receive a little recognition, though, after everything—even if Jackson might make another attempt to convince him to try to stay. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>With grief heavy in his heart, Stiles didn't bother answering the door at the sound of the knock. Nothing mattered anymore—after what he'd done to his friends—and he wanted to be left alone as much as he was desperate for someone to comfort him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles?" Lydia said, stepping into his room. "Are you… you're not dressed." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles opened his eyes and looked at her. She was wearing a black suit. The skirt fell to her knees, the jacket flared at her waist; with her gold jewelry and nude shoes, she looked both fashionable and solemn. Under his blankets, Stiles was wearing the same pajamas he'd worn for the last two days. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm not going," he muttered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Of course you are." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles tucked his face into his pillow. "No, I'm not. I don't belong there." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After a sigh, Lydia sat down on the edge of his bed. "You should come," she said, patting his shoulder. "You need to grieve with us." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles thought about telling her about how Allison's dad followed him (or camped out across the street from the house) in the days following his sort-of exorcism, until John chased him away. He thought about telling her that he could remember the scents of blood and chaos and pain in the air and how happy it made the nogitsune. He thought about telling her that Scott couldn't make eye contact with him the first (and only) time he visited. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Instead, he kept his mouth shut. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles… you should come pay your respects. To Allison and to Aiden," she said. "We're having a thing for him after Allison's service." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The names of some of the nogitsune's victims sent another lump of sadness and shame into Stiles' throat. The idea of facing the rest of the pack was upsetting—but it was also terrifying. He was very glad Lydia couldn't scent his moods or hear his heartbeat. She could see he was miserable, clearly, but she wouldn't get anything more than that. He was afraid of his emotions and of what he was capable; he was afraid of Lydia's and the pack's reactions to what he had, although unwillingly, become. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Lydia sighed, pulling him from his thoughts. "Stiles, please," she said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Her dad won't want me there," Stiles mumbled. "I think it's safer if I stay away." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She sighed again. "I don't agree… but it's your decision to make," she said after a long pause. "If you decide to come to the pack's thing, we'll be in the preserve. We're burying Aiden's ashes by the old house and then we're having a picnic in that hidden clearing."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles thought burying his remains near the Hales' memories was an insult, after everything he and Ethan and the other alphas had done to Derek's pack; he held his tongue, knowing Lydia had cared for Aiden, in her own way, and that it was Derek's choice how he grieved the losses Stiles had inflicted upon him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Lydia left him after a pat on his shoulder. Stiles turned his head and breathed in an unobstructed breath before he closed his eyes against the tears threatening to spill. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>No one would really want him there. It was better that he stayed away and left them to their healing because he was responsible for Aiden's and Allison's death. He didn't deserve to heal with the pack.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Stiles selects Caolán's number from his contacts and waits for him to answer the call. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"So. Beacon Hills," </span>
  </em>
  <span>Caolán says, after the third ring. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"And you're still alive." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah," Stiles says. He huffs out a little laugh before he sighs and rubs his forehead. "Dad's not out of the hospital yet, but I'm fantasising about leaving every day." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Any word on the shooter?"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Caolán asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks out across the motel room, to his wall of information. There isn't much. He has the information Chris gathered, as well as the information he gleaned from his own research. Jordan hasn't provided anything new or outstanding. He knows they are hunters; he suspects they're looking for him. If Deaton's potion skills are better than Stiles assumes they are, Stiles only has a couple grainy surveillance pictures and the feeling of being watched to add to his investigation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nothing… not really," Stiles replies. He leans back against the pillows and headboard. "Hey… you know potions better than me—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Uh, barely,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Caolán interjects. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"—whatever, still better than me, and I need to know about identifying or separating potions," Stiles continues. "Is there a wolfsbane detecting potion? Like could it tell you what species of wolfsbane was used?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You want to know what strain was in the bullet?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles relays the information Derek had given him a few days ago in the hospital, and he waits for Caolán's response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Let me talk to Eliot,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> he says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I don't know that much about potions. But Eliot's a whiz at them. He might know what that guy did—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Or if it's possible," Stiles interrupts. "Deaton always made me suspicious. It could just be his weird cryptic nature—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Always listen to your instincts," </span>
  </em>
  <span>Caolán recites. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smiles. Mira tells him that a lot, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, exactly," he agrees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"So what are you thinking?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smile fading, Stiles sighs. "I… I don't know. I think I have to set a trap," he says. "Or at least become predictable enough that they come out of hiding. I can't leave until these people are handled. They'll keep following me—they shot Dad and then circled up near my home base when I was preparing to head here. Who knows what they'll do next if I just leave. Can't risk it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán is silent for a few moments. Then, he, too, sighs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah, I don't like the idea of them continuing to pursue you,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> he says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I don't get it, though. I mean, you save lives—and, sure, some of them are werewolves, but a lot of them are human. Why would hunters be after you?"</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Because I save werewolves?" Stiles suggests. "I go into some shitty situations and get results hunters aren't wild about. Even this last job… she killed hunters. They killed her whole pack and she was out of her mind with grief, but she still killed hunters." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Why did you save her?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles closes his eyes. "She's a victim of their actions. She only became a killer because they killed her family," he says in a softer voice. "I hate hunters who kill supernaturals, just because they're alive. This destruction needs to stop."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I agree with you, you know." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know," Stiles murmurs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I also think you need back-up,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> he continues. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you offering?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán chuckles in Stiles' ear. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm already on my way," </span>
  </em>
  <span>he admits. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I left Excelsior an hour ago."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Seriously?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You're one of us," </span>
  </em>
  <span>Caolán says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I might not be as powerful as Magnus or Mira, but I can still help. And I want to."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smiles. Magical support will be hard to explain to Derek and the pack, but Caolán isn't obvious like Magnus or Margo and he doesn't attract attention like Alec or Morgana often do. There's a good chance the two of them could get in and out without attracting attention—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You'll have to point me to the alpha so I can ask permission to enter the territory,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Caolán says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Ugh. Seriously? I didn't."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You didn't? He didn't notice?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. "No. I've been in front of him a few times now. Dad and my brother are with them, remember? None of them have a clue about me," he says. "Dad does, because I told him, but he doesn't know the extent of it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Wow."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a snort, Stiles says, "I'm not casting or anything, so they just see what they want to see, man." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán chuckles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I guess so,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> he agrees. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I probably won't even have to interact with them, right? I mean, you're avoiding them… I'd like to meet your dad, though."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'd like that, too," Stiles admits as he relaxes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Caolán doesn't meet the pack, they won't learn his other identity or anything about his vocation. He might still be able to get out of Beacon Hills without anyone but John and Caolán learning the whole truth of Stiles' life—and he can accept that. Caolán can be trusted and he'll understand the risks of Stiles using a name other than his own. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks. He hopes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gives Caolán his room information and the way past his warding on the door. It won't take long for him to arrive in Beacon Hills, but Stiles wants to go visit John while the pack (or most of the pack) is at their respective jobs. He tells Caolán to make himself at home and give his information a scan; he tells Caolán that he'll be back as soon as he finishes visiting with his dad. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Take your time. I have a book on my phone,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Caolán says before ending the call. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Malia kept knocking—even though she knew Stiles was in the room, awake and unharmed, but growing rapidly growing more upset and frustrated with every tap of her nails or knuckles against the window—and calling out for him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>On a normal day, she might have been able to get into the bedroom. But, since their recent late night encounter, he kept a line of mountain ash around his bed and against the windowsill. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks hated what Stiles had done; he was currently staying with Scott, in an </span>
  </em>
  <span>ash-free zone, </span>
  <em>
    <span>as he put it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles didn't care. He was trying to keep himself sane. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He tried to approach someone in the pack, for once thinking he shouldn't be alone. He'd thought Malia might be the best first choice because he hoped she'd understand how he hadn't been in his right mind when they met—and because she hadn't been connected to Allison or Aiden. Derek had taken her under his furry wing, as an alpha should; Stiles hoped she'd be able to tell him if Derek and the others thought he could rejoin them. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But, Malia had interpreted his approach as a continuation of whatever physical relationship they'd had when he was possessed and drugged and out of his mind. And, as Stiles mixed up physical intimacy with physical comfort, Malia had gotten a little too excited. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The wounds on his back weren't too deep. They were already healing; Melissa had taped them closed and covered them with gauze. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles didn't think he wanted to risk anymore pack interactions if that was what happened with a person who didn't hate or blame him for what the nogitsune had done. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"C'mon… please… can we talk?" Malia asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"No, Malia," Stiles said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm sorry, okay?" Malia replied. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Okay."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Malia tapped the window. "Open now?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Nope!" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She growled. "It was just instinct! I wanted to mark you!" she exclaimed. "I won't do it again if—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles stood up and walked over to the window. "I think you should find someone who wants to be claimed," he said, looking at her. "I think you should find someone who isn't a mess and who can consent." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Malia frowned as she studied him. "But, you want me."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"The first time, I hadn't slept in days and was carrying a demon inside of me," Stiles said. "The second time, I wanted comfort, not… not sex." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You should've told me right away," Malia said, pressing her forehead into the glass window pane. "Why didn't you speak up?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles shrugged. "I didn't know how," he admitted. "I'm sorry. You should go be with the pack. I'm not good company right now." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She nodded. A moment later, she was gone. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles breathed a sigh of relief. He might have thought he needed someone to help him, but maybe being alone was safer than his other options. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He'd figure out how to survive being alone. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When he finally went back to school, he found out it wouldn't be that difficult. Scott was still avoiding him. Isaac, Erica, Boyd, and Lydia, surprisingly, banded together and basically snubbed everyone. Cora wasn't around much. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And Malia was busy trying to suck off Feliks' face through her mouth. Feliks seemed to be an enthusiastic participant. It was so weird to watch and, suddenly, Stiles had the perfect excuse for avoiding them all.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As soon as Stiles arrives at John's room, it's made very clear to him that John is <em>beyond</em> ready to leave. He's dressed and sitting in the standard wheelchair; Melissa is leaning against his gurney bed, and they're both smiling brightly at Stiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Time to go?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John nods. "Yes. I want a real bed. And privacy."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles arches an eyebrow. "Funny… you're denying me the opportunity to speak to your doctor. What are you hiding?" he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why are you so suspicious of your old man?" John asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Really?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melissa laughs as John huffs and rolls his eyes. "I had the doctor confirm home care requirements with me, so I could give you this," she says, holding up a large manila envelope. "Basically, he'll need someone to help with dressing changes for a few more days—and to keep an eye out for any inflammation or fever—and no heavy lifting or strenuous labour until he gets the okay from physio." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"When's his next—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Outpatient physio appointments are in here, too," Melissa says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Thanks," Stiles replies. He looks at John. "So you're ready to go?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods. "Take me home," he insists. Stiles opens his mouth, to ask if John is sure that's where he wants to go, and John quickly speaks again. "I'd like some quiet time. I know we haven't talked about it yet, but, if you're on board, I'd really like to go home. I trust you to keep us safe." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles bows his head. "Yeah… I've been… prepping. Just in case," he says. "Thanks." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John grunts. "Don't thank me for that. You're my son, too, and I know you'd be miserable if I stay with the pack," he says. "It's not fair to you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dad…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"This is the first time you're back since you left. We're going to have family time," John declares. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a little smile, Stiles nods. "Okay… okay. Just lemme make a quick call? I have someone coming today to help, and they're going to my motel room," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John pats the arms of his wheelchair. "Apparently, I'm not going anywhere," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn't take long to make contact with Caolán and fill him in. He offers Caolán the couch—which is upgraded to Feliks' bed when John says Feliks plans on spending his nights at his apartment or some of the betas—and Caolán accepts the offer. Quickly, and without difficulty, they make a plan; Caolán will go to the motel, survey Stiles' research, and then he'll pack up everything and bring it over to the house. It's a good plan, even if it makes Stiles nervous to have to explain his secret identity sooner rather than later. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melissa helps Stiles get John outside and into his vehicle, and then she hugs him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Take care, okay?" she murmurs. "I don't know everything that's going on, but Chris seems on alert, so…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I promise to be attentive and careful," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods. "All right. Call if you need something, okay?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I will," he murmurs as they separate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leaves her side and hops into the driver's seat. John smiles at him; he smiles back. For a moment, it feels like nothing is wrong and they're just going for a drive. Stiles turns on the jeep and puts it into gear; he looks through the windshield and wonders if they're being watched. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What's wrong?" John asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Just… checking out the landscape," Stiles replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John exhales slowly. "Are we going to talk about this now?" he asks after a pause. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Uh…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Because you and I both know the pack isn't the target, right?" John confirms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The shooter went through my phone when I was down," John explains as he buckles his seatbelt. "You're listed in my contacts as 'Interstate Protection Commission.'"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Stiles snorts. "There's no such thing," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John smiles. "I know."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why did you do that?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a snort of his own, John says, "As soon as you told me what you've been doing, I knew Feliks and I could be targets for retribution if anyone knows who you really are. And Derek… well. After you left, and stayed gone, he wanted to find you. Got a bit fixated on it for a while. I didn't think he'd take my phone, but I didn't want him or the pack to know your alias. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know you're not ready to forgive them," he adds. "So, I gave your fake name a fake name. Had to tell them where to find it when we got to the hospital." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, if we can just stay out of each other's ways for a little bit…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a groan, John turns his head and looks at him. "You honestly think that's going to happen?" he asks. "Feliks is going to be at the house some days. And Parrish will be stopping by to keep me updated on what's happening at work." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Feliks is okay, Parrish is okay, Jackson is okay, and Derek is… yeah, he's okay, too, since this is happening in his territory," Stiles says. "I know you spend time with them and get along with them, but the others are going to have to respect my space." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Aren't you sick of this?" John asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles bites his tongue. He knows he holds grudges; he knows his rage seethes under the surface of his skin for far longer than it should. It's a character flaw. But, if he lets go and allows the pack close, he fears what else they could do to him. He won't be a doormat for them. He needs serious evidence of change before he even considers letting them back into his life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you sure you want to risk their lives if a hunter is coming after me?" Stiles asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I trust in your abilities," John says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. He thinks over everything as he drives them through town. His father's faith in Stiles skills and abilities is touching; John has never seen him work, but he supposes the fact that he survived every job so far (and he mentally knocks on wood at that thought) is an indication that he isn't inept. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels better knowing that Caolán is on his way, though. It certainly sounds like someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> after him, and if they do get the drop on him, Caolán will be able to protect John. A little extra boost in magical gifts might even keep them all alive. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he thinks about the shooter searching John's phone, and tries to puzzle out how the hunters knew to loop around into Washington, a thought occurs to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wait… Corey watched you get shot—and then hung back as the shooter searched your phone?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John sighs. "I don't think it happened like that," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh my god, you're defending him. You got shot and he just watched. He's not even pack, according to Parrish—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's more a member of the pack than other people." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles flinches. "Ouch." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After another sigh, John reaches over and squeezes Stiles' arm. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean it like that." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How did you—no, nevermind, it doesn't matter," Stiles mutters. "What matters is you're alive and out of the hospital." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles, I am sorry. I just meant that he's been here. And I know you think you can't be here," John says. "But, you could. We'd make it work." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dad… no, not without… no. They haven't changed. I have." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John frowns, but he doesn't say anything. Stiles glances at him, waiting for him to say something else; he remains silent as Stiles continues to drive. Filing away his irritation used to be easier, but Stiles thinks he manages it. He can stew and seethe later, when John is hopefully taking a nap. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then he pulls into the driveway and sees Feliks and Lydia sitting on the front step. His temper flares inside his chest. They're holding hands; when they stand up, Lydia kisses Feliks and waves at John and Stiles as she passes by the vehicle towards her own car that is parked on the street. She looks good—she always looks good—and that distracts him from his emotions. His attraction to Lydia dissipated around the time Stiles realised they'd never work (and maybe around the time he realised his heart had focused on someone else completely unobtainable in the pack), and he already knew she and Feliks are together through John's updates, but it still feels weird to witness evidence of their relationship. Malia had been Feliks being Feliks and Malia struggling to find something familiar in an unfamiliar world; Stiles understands that, after a lot of reflection on their weird relationship, and the pain faded with that realisation. Lydia isn't really an issue between Feliks and Stiles, but it's still weird, and Stiles doesn't like to think about too much. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks opens John's door and grins. "Hey, Dad," he says. "Welcome home." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I get both of my boys, huh?" John asks. "I'm glad the three of us can be together." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, I took the morning off so we can hang out," Feliks says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They share a manly, backslapping hug. Stiles clenches his jaw and turns off his vehicle's engine. As much as he wants to leave, he figures he is overdue for some of Feliks' and John's little love fest; he missed years of it while he avoided Beacon Hills. Instead of expressing his frustration, he swallows it down and focuses on taking John's bag out of his car while subtly scanning their surroundings for signs of hunters. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay. One more for today. And that's it until tomorrow.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>After a series of quiet taps on the window, Derek asked, "Stiles? Can I come in?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles pulled the covers up over his head. It had been a couple weeks since the funerals and he was still hiding from the world when he didn't have to go to school and pretend to be a part of it; Feliks had practically moved to Scott's house, claiming he couldn't live in a house that reeked of guilt and sadness, and Stiles suspected John was on the cusp of throwing Stiles outside just so he could get some sunshine on his skin and fresh air in his lungs. He didn't care. It was safer for everyone if he stayed inside, hiding behind mountain ash and the pungent odors of guilt, grief, and shame. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The tapping stopped, but Stiles didn't emerge from his cocoon until John knocked and opened the bedroom door. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You know the mountain ash can't keep </span>
  </em>
  <span>me</span>
  <em>
    <span> out, right?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles peeked at him. "I know," he mumbled. "It's not for you. It's for the pack." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What if they want to see you?" John asked. He gestured towards the window. "Seems like Derek's interested in seeing you." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"To growl at me, probably," Stiles admitted. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John sighed and entered the bedroom. When he sat down on the bed, he put his hand on Stiles' shoulder. "They understand it wasn't you, Stiles," he said in a quiet voice. "We all understand it wasn't you." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Scott can't look at me. I </span>
  </em>
  <span>killed</span>
  <em>
    <span> Alli—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"It wasn't you," John insisted. "And he knows that. He's just… hurting. And he's probably trying not to pile onto your feelings with his feelings." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles doubted that. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Don't worry about Scott. He has Melissa, and Feliks and Isaac are staying with him. They'll help him," John added. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That, Stiles believed. All he did was hurt people… cause pain. He was becoming pretty good at that. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John's heavy sigh pulled Stiles from his thoughts. "Do you want me to stay with you?" he asked. "I'm supposed to go to work, but—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles shook his head. "No… you should go," he said. "After everything I did, you guys are seriously under-staffed."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When his hand squeezed Stiles' shoulder, John said, "It wasn't you." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"They don't know that," Stiles said. "Eventually someone will come forward—I wasn't exactly discrete—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Kid, it wasn't you," John insisted. "You were possessed. You were not responsible for your body's actions. I will do anything to keep you out of this. It wasn't you."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Frowning, Stiles nodded. He was having a hard time coming to terms with his being a meatsuit for a dangerous fox demon thing. He could remember how things felt—stabbing Scott, dispatching his foot soldiers, absorbing the pain and chaos and feeling the energy filling him up—and the power in those actions had both terrified and comforted him. In a world where his friends and (some of) his family were werewolves, hunters, and banshees, being human made him weak. Stiles felt pale in comparison to his brother, who had been brighter and stronger even before Derek saved his life with the bite. While he loathed being out of control of his body, he remembered liking the way he felt strong and indestructible. Every time he looked back on his possession experience, he did so with a mix of horror and pleasure that he couldn't quite reconcile. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You should go," Stiles mumbled. "I'll be okay." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John leaned forward and pressed a kiss into Stiles' hair. "All right. But, if you're not okay—for any reason—you call me." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles nodded. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After John left his room, not closing his door but stepping over the mountain ash lines with care, Stiles burrowed back into his blankets and closed his eyes. He listened to John moving around—the usual sounds of putting on shoes, getting his service weapon out of the safe, looking for his keys and his phone—and let the routine noise lull him back to sleep. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When he heard John welcome Derek into the house and tell him that Stiles was still upstairs, Stiles blinked at the wall in surprise. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek jogged up to the second floor. He didn't push against the boundary; instead, he settled down in front of the open doorway, sitting in the hallway. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm here," he said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"To tell me I'm a murderer?" Stiles asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"No, never," he replied. "I'm here. Because you're here." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles frowned. "Uh… okay." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek exhaled, but he didn't expand on the topic. He remained quiet, patiently waiting for something—although Stiles wasn't sure what that something was supposed to be. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Once his father's car pulled out of the driveway, Stiles felt confusion give way to irritation. Derek was just sitting there, not saying anything, and if he were about to kick Stiles out of the pack (if he were still—or ever—a part of it), Stiles would prefer he stop delaying. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"At least you've still got the good twin, right?" he said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek snorted. "Don't be an idiot." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Huh?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm here because you're hurting. I know what it's like to have your control taken away. I'm here because I understand and you shouldn't be alone," Derek says. "You might be able to chase the others away, and some of them might not understand, but I do. So, I'm going to sit here, near you, and support you this way." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I… thanks," Stiles whispered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek made a small sound, a grunt of acknowledgement, and fell silent. It took twenty minutes, but, eventually, Stiles broke the mountain ash barrier across his door. When Derek moved inside the bedroom, he sat down on the bed. They didn't touch; they didn't need to make contact. Derek's presence alone helped to settle him into dreamless sleep better than anything or anyone else had done in weeks.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While Stiles desperately wants an interruption from </span>
  <em>
    <span>The John and Feliks Show, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Derek showing up isn't on his list of preferred options. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't wait for anyone to answer the door; he knocks once, enters, and looks around to find everyone. His body language is tense, so Stiles guesses there's a threat; when he walks towards Derek, though, he catches the tingly vibe of Caolán's magic drifting around Derek and he laughs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What?" Derek asks with a laser-focused glare in his direction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Have a run in with a visitor to our fine town?" Stiles asks in response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes. Pack your bags. I'm moving all three of you to the pack house," Derek says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles laughs even harder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles!" Derek barks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When John and Feliks shuffle into the foyer, Stiles is still laughing and Derek is still glaring. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Man, what did Caolán do to you?" Stiles asks, his voice breathless but full of good humour. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You know him?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods at Derek's question. "Well, duh," he replies. "I called him. Lemme guess, you were staking out my motel room like a creeper? And he walked in? So you scared him and he did something to protect himself?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek shifts his weight but remains silent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, pal, Caolán is what I call a friend," Stiles explains. "I called him to come help </span>
  <em>
    <span>me.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He was going to grab my stuff and bring it here." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's a—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Magic user? Again, I say 'duh,'" Stiles interjects. He frowns. "Did you hurt him?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before anyone can say anything else, Caolán speaks from the front step, through the open door. "No, but I did stick him to the wall while I packed up your gear." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles cackles at Caolán's entrance, thoroughly enjoying the mental image of Derek stuck to the wall while Caolán gathered his belongings. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles, who's this?" John asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ignoring the look of confusion on Caolán's face at John's use of his nickname, Stiles gestures. "Caolán Longstreet, this is my dad, John Stilinski, my brother, Feliks, and… the alpha of the territory—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Derek Hale, yes," Caolán says as he crosses the threshold. "I apologise, Alpha Hale. After everything I was told about recent events, I thought it would be best to cast first and ask questions later. I didn't realise you're the alpha. I assumed you might be one of your betas, infringing on my friend's privacy as they've been doing since he arrived in town." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek blinks at him but says nothing as Caolán steps past him to greet John and Feliks. "It's an honour to meet you, sir," Caolán says as he shakes John's hand. "I've heard a lot about you—vaguely, but still, a lot." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm sorry I can't say the same," John admits, cringing. "Stiles is very… protective of his life." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán grins. "He is," he agrees, and Stiles is certain Caolán is referring to much more than his reticence to discuss friends and family. His grin fades a little as he looks at Feliks. "Huh. Fascinating. You might be identical twins, but your auras are so different," he muses as he looks around Feliks' body. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns away from Feliks and looks at Stiles. "Is it just the werewolf thing?" he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I have no idea, but we can research it later," Stiles says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, big guy?" Stiles asks Derek. "Problem?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why is…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why is Caolán here?" Stiles suggests. At Derek's nod, Stiles says, "Well, like I said, I called him." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And I felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles</span>
  </em>
  <span> should have someone in his corner, for support, while he's back in his childhood home," Caolán says. "His last visit was too short, anyway. The others will be jealous I get more time with him before his next trip." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek doesn't look angry, but he doesn't look pleased, either. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The others, huh?" John asks. "Why don't you come get something cold to drink and tell me all about Stiles' new circle of friends." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sounds good," Caolán agrees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With them gone to the kitchen, Feliks rounds on Derek. "You're not going to let him stay, right?" he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You brought a witch to Beacon Hills, Stiles!" Feliks growls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"First, don't use that term unless it's what they prefer to be called—because some magic users find those stereotypical names offensive," Stiles corrects. "Second, I invited </span>
  <em>
    <span>my friend</span>
  </em>
  <span> here because I'm sick of being outnumbered—and because I want someone here I can trust." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's fine," Derek says, startling a gasp out of Feliks. "If they're here with hostile intentions, it would be a problem, but—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He attacked you!" Feliks exclaims. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Derek shakes his head. "He stuck me to a wall. And while that's frustrating, it isn't dangerous or fatal," he says. "He was protecting himself, not hurting me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles deserves to feel safe, too," Derek interrupts in a firm voice, a hint of a growl surfacing in the words. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. "Thank you," he murmurs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't thank me for that," Derek replies. "We haven't been doing a good job if you think you're not safe here. Your friend is welcome. You are welcome." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods again because he doesn't know what to say to Derek's reasonable and articulate response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks, on the other hand, has plenty to say. "So, what, you wouldn't be with a pack so you hang around a coven?" he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a roll of his eyes, Stiles says, "Wouldn't? Wow. Yes, that's exactly it, Feliks." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek watches them, remaining mostly silent. He full-on growls and flashes his eyes when Feliks opens his mouth to say something else, but he doesn't say anything. His eyes focus on Stiles; something about that silent scrutiny makes Stiles shift his weight from one foot to the other. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Will you keep me informed if Caolán finds anything about the hunters?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek's assumption that Caolán would be using his magic to investigate John's shooting gives Stiles the wiggle room he needs to be able to conceal the truth while remaining truthful. He smiles a little—only a little, so he doesn't seem gleeful or arouse suspicion—and nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sure," he says. "I'll let you know if Caolán finds anything." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Derek nods, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That's it?" Feliks demands. "Deaton won't be happy about this." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Deaton doesn't own the town," Derek says, turning his suddenly stern face to Feliks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And if that's his goal, well, you guys have much bigger problems than a couple hunters," Stiles adds.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks frowns. "Why?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"A territory with a nemeton, and all the energy coursing through it? Plus a medium-sized pack to use as his own supernatural bodyguards, keeping out anyone else with more power than him?" Stiles asks. He huffs out a laugh. "You guys better hope I've been wrong all this time." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I always assumed you were," Feliks says as he turns away from him and Derek. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Distance is the only thing keeping Feliks from shoulder-checking Stiles as he heads into the kitchen, but Stiles doesn't care. He's used to feeling wrong; he doesn't need physical contact to compound that feeling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I haven't seen him do anything," Derek admits. "I've tried to keep an eye on him—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And, besides, he helps the pack," Stiles interrupts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. He still sometimes hopes he misunderstood everything the nemeton showed him; he still sometimes hopes he's just been unnecessarily suspicious of Deaton. In Deaton's defense, if he is planning something beyond securing a kingdom for himself, complete with a fangs-and-claws-having army for protection, he is playing a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> long game. Stiles never felt like he had an agenda before, when he'd still been fighting to be a part of the pack and to prove his worth. He never saw anything that suggested Deaton has a specific, focused plan. It always felt more like a general intention to maintain control of the territory. He hopes that's all it is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can't explain his </span>
  <em>
    <span>feelings</span>
  </em>
  <span> to Derek. Anything Deaton's said or done could be construed as him trying to protect Beacon County. Anything in Stiles' memories or visions could be brushed off as a dream. He knows how it sounds and looks, he knows that Derek would be more respectful of Stiles' feelings than Feliks or Scott would be, but he also knows that his feelings could not be taken as serious, concrete evidence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His voice doesn't matter, not really, anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Whatever you're thinking, stop it," Derek says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why should I?" Stiles challenges. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Because maybe you should fight for what you want instead of letting people take from you without your permission," Derek replies. He looks at Stiles in a way that suggests he knows something of what Stiles has been thinking—but he can't, right?, because he's not in Stiles' head, so he must be assuming something else—and that look cuts straight through Stiles to the place where his emotions live. "Call me if you or Caolán find something out, okay? Please. This is my territory, too." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods and watches him as he leaves the house. When the door is closed, he pads into the living room and slumps down onto the couch. His full head, usually so loud and busy, calms and quiets in a way that lets him know he's close to maxing out on worry and conflict. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My head is full, I'm juggling this story's edits/proofing and the rough notes for the sequel, and I've still got to put time in on, y'know, real life. I'm falling behind on keeping up with all the comments you've been leaving on this story. I just want to say this here... thank you so much for reading this story and sharing what you think. I had no idea this would get so much feedback. I'm floored and shocked. I'm so touched you're engaging and interacting with this (and, I will admit, I'm a little scared I'm going to disappoint you), and I fully plan to catch up and read the most recent comments when I get a few minutes &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>He'd been tucked away in the library when he received Feliks' text—</span>
  </em>
  <span>They're after me. Meet in LR!</span>
  <em>
    <span>—so it wasn't hard to run from there to the locker rooms where he hoped Feliks would be waiting for him. They hadn't had much luck in terms of locker rooms and bleeding injuries, between lacrosse and pack business, so Stiles wasn't sure what to expect when he slipped into the room from Finstock's office, thanks to the secret hallway he and Feliks had scouted out one day in ninth grade when John was late to pick them up from school. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks had a scratch on his arm. Stiles can see the small amount of blood soaked into the ripped fabric of his hoodie where he'd been attacked. Despite his werewolf physiology, he was breathing deeply and quickly; his eyes were wide and white, almost shocky as Stiles skidded to a halt in front of him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You're alive. Good. Who's after you?" Stiles asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Lacrosse player. One of the new guys. He has a… a knife in his crosse. In the grip," Feliks said between pants of breath. "And his girlfriend. She circled behind me as he approached. I was just running laps—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Okay, okay," Stiles interjected. "We're going to figure out a way to stop all of this assassin business—we just need to stay alive. Where are they?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I lost them in the gym," Feliks replied. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles frowned. "Can you hear them? Smell them?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"All I can smell is that wolfsbane goo on the knife!" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After looking around the locker room and catching sight of two disposable lighters on the sink's edge, Stiles figured Feliks had tried to burn out the poison from his wound. That was one less thing to worry about. He wished Feliks could use his enhanced senses, but he understood how fear, pain, and a considerable amount of stress could restrict a person. Werewolves succumbed to their emotions' effects, still, no matter how enhanced they were. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles looked at Feliks' clothes as a plan </span>
  </em>
  <span>finally </span>
  <em>
    <span>hatched in his mind. He didn't want to put on Feliks' dirty track pants and the super sweaty (and bloody) hoodie, but it was all he could think of doing. If he could run outside to the jeep, cause a diversion, and get away—attracting attention but not getting killed in the process (that </span>
  </em>
  <span>avoiding death</span>
  <em>
    <span> portion was crucial to the plan)—then Feliks could run for real help. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"We're going to trade clothes," he said. "They don't know I was in the library. No one came in after four and I was tucked in the stacks away from windows. If I can run past them, make some noise, and get to the jeep, maybe I can lure them away." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks nodded. Without hesitation, he tugged his shirt over his head. Stiles followed suit, and they swapped clothing within a few minutes. Stiles plucked the thin beanie off of Feliks' head and tugged it down over his own. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Do something about your hair," Stiles advised. "I'll make my way outside from the secret hallway. Text Derek or… or Cora, okay?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks nodded. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>With a nod of his own, Stiles slipped back into Coach Finstock's sporty domain. It was the best place from which to sneak out, even though few people knew that. The locker room's doors only opened to the field, but Finstock had a closet and that closet shared a door to a hallway that opened up onto the staircase to the boiler room. Its existence explained so much about how their coach and teacher could appear anywhere, at almost any time, in addition to shortening his journey between his economics classroom and his office. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He could take the corridor and surprise their opponents by showing up in another area of the school. Feliks could go the other way. Hopefully, he'd have the sense to contact people who could help them. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles would die to save his family—but that didn't mean he wanted to be killed by assassins. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He kept his pace as quick as possible as he moved through the secret hallway. Listening for signs of the killers, he then took the set of stairs that would take him to the door to the school's corridor. He would emerge in a long line of classrooms with a straight shot at the doors before the parking lot. It was a risk; they could assume Feliks would head there as his car was there. But, Stiles also knew werewolves were fast on their feet—and if he knew that, the killers knew that, too. There was a good chance they'd assume Feliks would run for safety. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There was no sign of anyone at the doors. The first flash of red, blue, and white light caught him off-guard and he flailed a bit in the shadows before he realised what it meant. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Instead of calling for the pack, it looked like Feliks called their dad to deal with the hunters. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles resisted the urge to drop his face into his hands and groan. He heard footsteps behind him—two pairs of running footsteps, so he knew the sounds were not made by his brother—and Stiles knew he'd be seen (and perceived as Feliks) if he stayed where he was. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He ran, too. He darted outside and headed towards the parking lot and the jeep. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John was getting out of the cruiser with Deputy Parrish as his feet hit the lot's asphalt. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Feliks? Feliks!" John exclaimed. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He pulled Stiles into his arms, his hug fierce. At the puzzled look on Parrish's face, Stiles closed his eyes and bit back the automatic reaction to being misnamed. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Where are they?" John asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"In the school, I think," Stiles replied between pants for breath. "I heard footsteps running after me." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As he released Stiles, John nodded. "Get in the car. Parrish, stay with him, all right?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Parrish was already stepping forward, nodding, but Stiles looked around and realised that John was planning to take on two assassins by himself. "Dad, no, you can't go in there by yourself!" he exclaimed. "They're not—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>A second cruiser turned off the street and into the parking lot, not delaying in parking alongside John's vehicle. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Oh." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John smiled and reached out for Stiles. He squeezed Stiles' shoulder in an affectionate gesture. "We're just going to clear the school. They're probably long gone by now," he said. "Important thing is you're safe. I thought you were supposed to be at Hale's, though. Wasn't that the plan?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>A grimace settled into Stiles' face and fury settled into his heart. He hadn't been aware that the pack made a plan. Of course, Feliks decided he knew better. Of course, Feliks decided to risk his life—and Stiles' life and their father's life—so he could stick to his routine. There was a hit list on all the supernatural creatures in Beacon Hills, and Feliks wouldn't let that change his schedule. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Sir, you should go, now that Tilson and Floyd are here," Parrish advised. "I'll stay with your son." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John nodded. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Once they were alone, Parrish leaned back against the side of the vehicle. "So, you two did a clothing switch, huh?" he asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles smirked and shrugged. "How'd you know?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Parrish gestured at him. "Feliks doesn't show his thoughts on his face the way you do," he replied. "I can't tell </span>
  </em>
  <span>what</span>
  <em>
    <span> you're thinking, but I can see multiple trains of thought happening almost all the time. Busy head, busy face, I guess." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not for the first time, Stiles appreciated Parrish's observational skills. He didn't say much, but what he did say showed that he, too, had a mind that could work a problem. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Your dad can't tell you two apart?" Parrish asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Uh, usually, yes. We make it easy for him," Stiles replied, shrugging again as he tried to play off his hurt feelings. "I'm usually the one causing trouble. And Feliks is… y'know. Being amazing." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Parrish hummed a brief, non-committal noise. "You dressed up like him and ran out here, knowing those guys are somewhere looking for Feliks to kill him," he commented in a quiet voice. "That's pretty amazing, Stiles." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Praise (even though it was for doing all he could do to protect a member of his family) made Stiles uncomfortable. He shifted and rubbed the top of his head, but he didn't directly address Parrish's words. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Or just pretty stupid," he muttered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>His phone buzzed. When he pulled it out of the pocket of the pants he was wearing, he saw Derek's name on the screen. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Hello?" he said into the device. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Feliks is safe,"</span>
  <em>
    <span> Derek said. His voice was quiet over the phone's small speaker. </span>
  </em>
  <span>"He's with us."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Before Stiles could even breathe, Derek ended the call. He hadn't expected gratitude from Derek—or Feliks—but he had hoped for it. He'd dressed up in Feliks' clothes and ran outside, even though he'd been terrified to do so; he didn't need gratitude for trying to protect his family, because he believed that went with the territory of being in a family, but some sort of token of appreciation from the pack for his efforts might have been nice. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What's up?" Parrish asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Derek's got him," Stiles said. "Dunno where, but I'm assuming it's away from here." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Parrish clapped a hand to Stiles' shoulder. "Good," he said. "Let's get in the car. I think Floyd's gonna drive the jeep back to the station. The Sheriff said something about searching the vehicle, just in case. You're in the back—but I promise to turn the lights and sirens on when we head back to the station. Just for you." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles snorted and shook his head. "I'm not actually five," he protested. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>With a grin, Parrish opened the back seat door for him and ushered him inside the car's interior. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Magnus and Eliot," Caolán says as he holds up his ringing phone. "Might be about the potion." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At Stiles' nod, he answers the call. Even though Stiles hasn't yet talked with Caolán about the secrets he's been keeping, Derek and Feliks are gone and he knows it's the best time to gather the information his suspicions demanded he seek. John is in the living room, still; he could tell Derek everything he overhears, but Stiles is inclined to trust him. He has kept Stiles' secrets so far, especially from the pack, and Stiles believes he'll continue to do that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Daaaarlinngg,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot croons into the kitchen as soon as Caolán announced Stiles—or Jimmy—could hear them, too. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I miss your face. Why aren't you using wifi so I can see your face?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. "I miss your face, too, El," he says. "Magnus? You, too. And Alec. And… oh, everyone. You all know that." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Then stop leaving us!"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Magnus exclaims. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"How are you holding up? Are the puppies giving you any trouble? When are you coming back?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles chuckles. "Careful, Mags… there may be big ears hanging around," he warns. "And I'll come back as soon as I know my dad and the pack are safe. I moved all my crap out of my apartment when I realised my brother was in Baker City, too, so I don't have anywhere to go." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Perfect,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Alec says, his voice a little tinnier than Magnus' or Eliot's voices, suggesting that he was more than a few feet away from the device. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I'll get the spare room ready for you. You can put your stuff in there."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Alexander, we don't have a bed in there anymore,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Magnus says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alec laughs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Get with the program, would you? His stuff is going in there."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the realisation dawns (loudly) on Magnus' busy and scattered mind, Caolán laughs and leans into Stiles' side. Stiles leans back into him in response. He thinks back on the offers from Magnus and Alec; he wouldn't be opposed to hooking up with either or both of them, but the idea of being emotionally intimate with them is what makes his cheeks flush. He knows they would take good care of him because they've always treated him well, once they'd gotten to know Stiles as Jimmy. They're part of his support group. He wouldn't keep coming back to Excelsior if he couldn't trust any of their close knit circle of friends—but he wouldn't want to cuddle all of them. Magnus and Alec would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be close to, in that way. The idea is both terrifying and appealing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán is one of Stiles' (Jimmy's) closest friends, and they have hug privileges; however, Stiles isn't sure he'd want to cuddle Caolán. They're just not that kind of friends. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Can we focus?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Wolfsbane detection potions?"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. "Please. Any information you've got." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"It's possible,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"You take the blood of the infected—preferably from the site of insertion—and brew it in a separating solution that uses their uninfected blood. Tricky to make, but not if you have all the ingredients." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus speaks as soon as Eliot pauses for breath and a sip of whatever drink is in his hands. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Matching the wolfsbane is another potion,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> he says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Well. I say potion, but it's more like sand. You drip what's left from the separation—or a solution made by steeping the plant—into the powder. Bleached bones of a wolf, white or pure dirt, a salad of herbs, and some other stuff. Ground up into paste and left to dry. It can be done—but it can't be accelerated with a dehydrator or oven."</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing that Eliot and Magnus have said matches the account Derek gave him of Deaton's actions. Frowning, Stiles bows his head and mulls over both steps of the process. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Could it… could it be possible to do the test with blood and a couple of liquids, together?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"No,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Magnus replies. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I even called some people, just to double-check if there was another way to do it. This is all I could find."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You have to separate out the blood from the equation,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot explains. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"It won't work otherwise."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sighs and rubs his hands over his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What's wrong?" Caolán asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head as he continues to think through the evidence. Deaton lied by using an illusion. He lied to the pack's alpha. He is not what the pack believes him to be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What do you mean?"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's got his thinking face on," Caolán explains. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that comment, Stiles snorts. "I'm okay. I think. Are there potions that can turn a colour when you drop blood in them?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"That's just chemistry,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Magnus reminds him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Police and hospitals use them all the time."</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That bastard," Stiles growls as he realises just how Deaton had tricked Derek and the pack in the wake of John being shot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What is going on?"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Alec asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dad was shot with a bullet that had wolfsbane in it," Stiles explains. "The alpha here told me the sorry excuse of a man who has been acting as their emissary for years dropped some of Dad's blood into a solution. It turned pink. And he said that tells him what type of wolfsbane was in the bullet. They've been carrying some of it around in case they get shot, too." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I feel like I'm walking in halfway through a movie,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shakes his head as his anger bubbles up inside of him. "When I was a kid, the nemeton showed me what sort of person he is. I tried to tell the pack, but no one listened because he helps them—sometimes—and because I couldn't give them physical proof. I couldn't tell them I had a dream. I knew they wouldn't believe me. So, he tried to control me, I guess. When I wouldn't accept his offer of training, he told the pack things… they pressured me to join him for training so I could join them," he rambles. "His actions against the nemeton loosened the nogitsune's prison so it could possess me and, before and after that, the pack started to write me off. The damage I did to the community… ugh. And now, he must be working with people who shot my dad to lure me home. Something I'm doing is creating a problem for him… or maybe it's just that I exist. If I found out he has plans to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I'd stop him because, even though they kicked me out and made it impossible for me to return and live a private, independent life, I still care about them. My family's here, for crying out loud. I would come back if I knew what he was up to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And someone tried to kill me before. I found out there's been at least one contract out on me. Maybe I'm too unpredictable because I don't have a homebase, but here… here, they could work a trap," he continues as he pushes away from Caolán and the kitchen counter so he can pace freely. "With him helping, they can work hidden. With me focused on my issues with my family and the pack, I won't be as sharp. With the pack focused on me being here, they're not at their best, either. We're all unsettled. They've made an opening. They'll come for me here." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Okay. That's it. We're coming to help,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Magnus says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'll tell Clary I'll be gone for at least a week," </span>
  </em>
  <span>Alec adds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eliot speaks up, too.</span>
  <em>
    <span> "Margo and I can be ready in—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hold on!" Stiles interrupts, his voice louder than he intended it to be. "You can't all come running into Beacon Hills! The pack will lose their collective shit—and you might force Deaton to accelerate his plans. Right now, he doesn't know that I'm onto him. As far as I know, he thinks I'm here taking care of my dad and trying to figure out who shot him."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the magic users in Excelsior start protesting, Caolán says, "Feliks is going to tell this Deaton character about me. He took offense to my being here—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, because you're my friend, not because—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You've never trusted Deaton and everyone knows that. They'll assume," John interjects from the door to the kitchen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles blinks, his eyes darting from Caolán to the phone on the counter to his father, and he tries to see the whole chess board. He can't because there are pieces missing; he can't because he doesn't understand what Deaton could plan that would need Stiles permanently out of the way. If it were just about control of a region, Stiles would probably never fully realise what he is doing or planning to do; he'd never had an intention to return until John was shot. His mind jumps to conclusions quickly and he assumes Deaton has something planned that would hurt John, Feliks, and the pack. That is probably the only thing that, if Stiles were to catch wind of it, would bring him back to scorch the earth underneath anyone willing to risk their lives. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, he doesn't know how he was supposed to find out their plans. He'd arrived knowing nothing. It wasn't until he'd arrived in Beacon Hills and started asking questions that he realised something is suspect. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, yet, if he is right, someone (or Deaton) has been trying to kill him for a while. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dad—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Son, I trust you and I know you trust your friend here, so that's good enough for me on that count," he says, in a softer voice. "But, we both know Feliks is going to tell Deaton you brought a magic user here. He knows who you are and he will guess you're preparing for something." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What if I just want him here to hold my hand?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, we can do that later, certainly," Caolán says with a smirk that fades before he speaks again. "How well does he know you?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know what Scott and Feliks and the pack have told him," Stiles replies, shrugging. "He knows me a bit. From before Scott was bitten, when we were friends. And after, a little. From, y'know, trying to keep people from dying. He knows about my early mountain ash game, but I don't know if he knows… everything. The pack definitely doesn't." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán looks from Stiles to John. "Could you call Alpha Hale for me, sir?" he asks. "I believe it will be better for everyone if the request comes from me, through you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John arches an eyebrow. "You sure about that?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes," Caolán replies. "I am here to protect you and support your son, as far as the pack thinks. It should come from me." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles reaches out and touches Caolán's shoulder. "Thanks," he whispers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Caolán reaches out to talk to Derek, Stiles' so-called grudge against Deaton won't be a factor in Derek's decision-making process. It might not even need to be mentioned. Caolán approaching Derek also means Jimmy Travers stays a secret from most of the pack for another day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You'd do it for me," Caolán replies. He looks down at his phone. "Magnus and Alec. If the Alpha grants you permission to enter the territory, we would appreciate the help." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"And if he doesn't?"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And if he doesn't, well, we'll put mountain ash around the house and you guys can portal in if Magnus can manage it," Caolán decides, much to Stiles' amusement and Eliot's satisfaction, based on the snort Stiles can hear over the phone. "First, we try it the proper way. Then, we do it our way." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"If you need more help—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán smiles. "Then, I expect you and Margo will come to our aid," he says. "We'll try it discreetly first, and go from there. I'd like to avoid turning Beacon Hills into a warzone—and I know how you both behave when any of us are in danger." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eliot huffs out a loud sound of annoyance, but he doesn't disagree with Caolán's assessment. Stiles can't disagree, either. It had taken him months after his first encounter with Margo to even try to befriend either of them; they'd terrified him, even if Eliot had spent most of their first evening together bleeding out from wounds </span>
  <span>caused by a wendigo who thought flesh from magic users tasted best.</span>
  <span> Alec and Magnus had apologised as soon as Stiles had explained his actions—and allowed Wilder and Mira to look him over and determine who he was, then, at the time. But, Eliot and Margo… once crossed (or once they perceive that they've been crossed), they close ranks and go into what Stiles calls their Mama Bear Mode. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"We'll pack and be there in a few hours,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Magnus says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"We can use a portal, but it might be better to keep that to ourselves for now. Make us look…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Less powerful?" Stiles suggests. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus chuckles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"But no less handsome,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> he says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"We're going to go pack. You, my darling traveller, you are going to gear up."</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, I have to go grocery shopping first if you two are coming here," Stiles says. "And I should probably talk to Peter… maybe he can meet me. He told me about the hit. He might know who—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Peter knew about—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles frowns and thinks apologetic thoughts towards his father, hoping they show up on his face. "Dad—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He knew someone was going to try to kill you, and—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I handled it!" Stiles interrupts. "I didn't know it was a hit. I just thought it was someone I pissed off! I do that a lot, y'know." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tilting his head, John arched an eyebrow. "You didn't tell me," he accuses. "You are supposed to tell me everything." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Trust me, you don't want to know everything," Stiles claps back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows it's the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave his mouth, but he can't take them back. It would be a lie—and he stopped lying to John, about some stuff, anyway, years ago. He feels like lying by omission doesn't count; John doesn't ask the right questions, and Stiles lets him assume he's sharing enough about his life to paint a detailed picture. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the frown on John's face, he nods and holds up his phone. "I'm going to call Derek now," he says. "I'm asking on behalf of Magnus and… is it Alec?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Magnus Bane and Alec Lightwood, yes," Caolán replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John nods. "I'll let you know what Derek decides," he says, before shuffling back towards the living room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Is the formidable Jimmy Travers in trouble with his dad?" </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles catches sight of Caolán trying to hide his smile in his shoulder. He groans and rolls his eyes. "Shuddup, all of you," he says. "Magnus, if you and Alec don't mind coming, that would be great. And Eliot, if you and Margo can be on standby, just in case this all goes pear-shaped, I'll owe you one. Hopefully it won't come to that, but who knows what this guy's up to."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán opens his mouth, but Stiles raises a hand and he snaps it shut again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm going to go talk to Peter, if I can track him down. And then, I'm getting groceries. And no one is going to make fun of me for… anything. I know where you all live, and I'm not above payback," he declares before snatching his car keys off the table and leaving the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't even make it to the front door before Magnus, Eliot, and Caolán burst into laughter. Smiling and shaking his head, Stiles leaves the house.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It had been a while since Stiles spent any time alone with Malia. He wasn't particularly enjoying the experience. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They'd all survived the worst day of standardised testing, ever. Stiles, covered in blood splatter, had been shunted into the gym showers after his statement and evidence were collected; by the time he'd emerged and tugged on some ratty shorts and a hoodie from his locker, everyone else apart from the Centers for Disease Control and law enforcement had fled. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John had been surprised to see Stiles. Rafael hadn't told him about the daring and very timely rescue, and Stiles didn't see any reason to enlighten him. He had enough to worry about with Feliks and werewolves and assassins running around Beacon Hills. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Besides the day's events, after the nogitsune, they hadn't exactly been the same closeknit group they'd been… </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Well. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They might be getting closer, as a unit, but they seemed to be pulling away from Stiles. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He couldn't blame them. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He really wished Malia would have continued staying away from him. She was growling and clenching her fists; she was furious. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I… I can see you're mad," he said, quietly. "But, I can't help you until you use your words." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Help! Help?!" Malia exploded. "Haven't you done enough, Stiles?! You force me back into this body—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Technically, that was the pack," Stiles reminded her. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"—and you act one way but want something else—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. "Malia, I told you. I was possessed. I hadn't slept in days," he said, trying to keep his tone quiet. "I care about you. I do. I just… I can't be what you want. I'm—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I don't care!" Malia shouted. She took in a deep breath before she spoke again. "I am happy with your brother. He's fun. What I want to know is… why didn't you tell me about my father?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Mister Tate?" he asked, even though he was one hundred percent sure to whom she was referring. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Peter," Malia growled. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Since that was the response he suspected he'd receive, Stiles nodded and settled into silence. He knew he should apologise—and he fully intended to apologise—but he also knew she was approaching that danger zone she had in her mind and he wanted to make sure she wasn't going to scratch or bite him before he started talking. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Feliks found the actual list in your jacket—not the list you gave all of us," she said. "Who else knows? Does the whole pack know?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles shook his head. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"So you kept it from everyone? Why? Why?!" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She screamed and lunged at him, but before she could make contact, Stiles mentally reached out for the mountain ash under his bed and brought it out into a fast circle around him. He was getting much better at that particular trick. She hit the invisible barrier with her whole body; she grunted as she pushed against it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Against his better judgement, he started talking. "Look, yes, I know, I should have told you as soon as I found out," he said. "God knows Derek needs family who is alive and will stick around and isn't completely looney tunes crazy. But… I thought you've been through enough. For right now. I wanted you to have time to get used to being human. Or in your human form, I mean. And Peter? He's scary! I wanted to give you time before you had to deal with him." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm not weak," she growled. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I know. But… Peter… he… fuck, Malia. On a scale from Scott getting bit to the alpha pack? Peter doesn't even register on my fear scale, that's how much of a threat I know he can be," he admitted. "I say this as someone he has genuinely and deliberately helped. He scares the bejeezus out of me. I wanted to give you some time. I wanted to protect you." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Snarling, Malia said, "I can handle him." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"That's the thing," he said. "You shouldn't have to." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You don't get to decide for me!" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After a sigh, Stiles nodded. "You're right. I apologise." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Malia watched him, her eyes flickering blue on every second breath. Stiles could see her fight for control, and he felt proud of the way she was able to rein in her claws. She hadn't been able to do that for the first few months after leaving Eichen House. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles relaxed. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You are going to stay out of my life," she said in a low voice. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He could have argued that it would be impossible, with his brother in Derek's pack, too, but he decided to give self-preservation a try. He nodded. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"If you find out anything else—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I won't, okay? Or I'll try not to. You're off limits. I get it," Stiles said quietly. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She nodded and turned away. Instead of leaping out the window, she made her way through the door. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>As soon as he gets out of the vehicle and starts walking towards the grocery store, Stiles wishes that he'd made Caolán come with him. He wishes that he'd waited until John and Caolán finished with their phone calls and negotiations. There's a feeling on the back of his neck; he's being watched. With thoughts of Deaton and hunters in his mind, he can't tell if it's a threat—or just the pack, trying their best to annoy him with their posturing bullshit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jimmy Travers doesn't back away from a fight—and he gets that from Stiles—so Stiles straightens his shoulders and keeps walking. He does his best to look normal and harmless as he takes a cart from the corral and heads into the produce section of the store. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The prickle along his neck persists. He tries to look around as he walks; he doesn't see anyone particularly suspicious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It feels as if someone is trying to make him prey. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surprisingly, he hadn't felt that way when he'd been with Peter. They'd met at the fork in the road, where a driver can choose to head towards Beacon Hills' small downtown area or veer right towards the schools; they'd parked on the side of the road, shadowed by trees, and Stiles had gotten what little information Peter claimed to have. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"It wasn't coming directly from the client. I got it through an intermediary. Her name's Max Guevara. Don't know much about her, except that she's… a facilitator. Max is how we found Braeden again, after the Alpha Pack mess. Max hires her frequently for other jobs and was able to pass on a message."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn't a lot of information, but it's more than he had before speaking with Peter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to text the name to Caolán, but he also wants to keep his eyes focused on his surroundings. If someone is following him, watching his every move, he knows he can't afford to be distracted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After grabbing enough vegetables to make stir fry and lasagne for a small group of guests, he grabs a few lemons and limes (since he knows Magnus will probably insist on drinks at least once during his visit) and then puts a bunch of bananas into his cart. While evaluating the cases of cakes and pastries in the bakery section of the store, Stiles thinks he catches sight of Scott's tousled mop of hair; he looks up, sees nothing behind the rack of flatbreads, and grabs a box of cupcakes to add to the cart and to balance the nutritional value of its contents. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks he sees Malia when he was rounding seafood and entering into meat, but he turns away before he could confirm the sight of her. They'd never completely recovered—from her scratching and biting him, from him turning her down, from him lying to her, from her dating Feliks, from the things both of them had said during ridiculous fights, and so on, the list will never end—before the pack had pushed Stiles to leave and he doubts they'll ever find much common ground upon which they can both stand long enough to become friends. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's fine. He thinks she's good for the pack, balancing out the bitten werewolves' beliefs that they're more human than animal, because she doesn't see herself as divided into two halves; he thinks she's good for Derek and Peter and Cora because she's more family and they deserve more family. He knows she'll keep them safe as long as she's able to do so. It doesn't matter that they'll never see eye-to-eye. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles grabs a couple club packs of lean ground beef as well as plant-based ground product. The impulse to leave the beef is strong; John would be disappointed, though, and Stiles isn't sure he can risk disappointing him twice in one day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They have a policy, or an understanding. In the beginning, it was more about keeping track as Stiles left school and travelled to try to learn from people who may not be inclined to teach a stranger. When Stiles' interests formed his vocation and he started leaping into the fray between hunters and the supernatural, John had insisted Stiles continue to keep him informed so someone knows where he is and what he'll be doing. John had also made it clear that he is interested in Stiles' life and wants to be a part of it; asking for honesty is his way of doing that without putting too much pressure on Stiles' shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, it isn't easy. Stiles has no problem telling John where he is and what sort of job he's doing. John doesn't want to know the details, though, although he's never explicitly said that. Stiles knows John doesn't want to know if he's killed anyone with magic or with his bare hands; he knows John couldn't handle knowing how far into this cause Stiles has waded. He doesn't go into every job thinking he'll have to take a life—but if the opponent doesn't submit or if he can't avoid conflict, he knows it's either him or the bad guy, and he refuses to let it be him. If John knows the truth about Stiles' ruthless persona, it will change things between them. If John learns the truth about the dangers Stiles faces on a regular basis… well, Stiles is fairly certain John will try to put down his foot and convince Stiles to find a new line of work. Stiles can't stop what he's doing; it gives him purpose and strength and makes him feel like he's helping his family, even if they don't know all that he does for other people, both mundane and supernatural. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lost everyone else; he can't lose John, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, he'll give John actual meat and hope it soothes the hurt he caused by admitting John doesn't know everything that happens in Stiles' life. He'll try, going forward, to give John more details about his work. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shopping goes smoothly, despite the squirming feeling in his gut and the prickling sensation along his spine, and it isn't until he's in the frozen foods section looking for a couple frozen pizzas that meet his father's and friends' dietary concerns that he realises that Malia and Scott </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> following him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They are waiting for him in the corner where breakfast pastries meets ice cream. When Stiles meets their eyes, Scott gestures for him to join them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes his time, grabbing the food he thinks he'll need if Magnus and Alec (and Eliot and Margo, because, really, Stiles has a feeling they're eventually going to show up) are coming to help and visit. As much as he worries about them revealing his secrets to the pack, he does trust that at least some of them understand his situation. He's looking forward to seeing them—and trying to take care of them the way they take care of him when he visits to recharge. He assumes that's because he feels alone, surrounded by the pack, but he doesn't give it much thought. It will be good to see them; he always feels better when he's surrounded by magic users he knows and likes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he finally makes his way to the end of the refrigerated section, Malia looks agitated. Even Scott looks irritated. Stiles resists the urge to smirk at them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hello," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You took your time," Malia says back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. "Being followed and spied on doesn't really put me in the mood to hurry," he admits. "What do you two want?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott clears his throat before speaking. "Stiles… man, we just… we don't get why you're mad at us," he says. "We just want to fix it so we can go back to normal. So you can be here again." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are so many problems with Scott's words that Stiles doesn't know where to start. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I won't be living here again," Stiles says. "Firstly, because of the work I do. Secondly, nothing you could say will make me consider moving home, apart from the pack but under its surveillance. I deserve a life where I'm free to live." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, Scott says, "You could have that here." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Really? You wouldn't try to follow me around, spy on me, or just bump into me somewhere and use your nose and ears to try to figure out what I'm up to?" Stiles asks. "Could I really come and go as I please with the pack including my dad as one of theirs?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Malia tilts her head and takes a step back, seemingly conceding his point once she understands his position. But, to be contrary, Scott takes a step towards him and says, "We wouldn't—it's not—we care about you!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of saying anything right away, Stiles arches an eyebrow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles. You have to know we care about you," Scott reiterates. "Bro—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't," Stiles interjects. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He raises his hands and Scott falls silent. A few nearby shoppers are watching them, not so discreetly, and Stiles needs to get away from all of them so he can go back to figuring out how to get the threat of impending doom away from his family. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and finds the false sense of calm he forces himself to create when he needs to centre his abilities. Then, he opens his eyes and looks from Scott to Malia and back to Scott. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We aren't doing this here," Stiles says. "I realise that you don't understand what you did or don't see it as a big enough deal, but we aren't talking about this here. We might never talk about it because I can't look at your face without wanting to punch it or scream. You have to accept that it's not something you can force to be better." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott's eyes widen and soften. Stiles knows he is doing it deliberately and he steels himself against the sad expression. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why can't it be better?" Scott asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No," Stiles replies, shaking his head. "It's not my job to make you feel okay, Scott." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Does Derek know you're here?" Stiles asks, tipping his head to one side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With another frown, Scott says, "No, but he doesn't know you like I do, and I know if we can just talk—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Listen up, pal. He's the only wolfie who's really shown me any consideration since I've been home," he says. He pauses, then adds, "And Jackson. Oh, and Peter, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Since Dad's been shot, I have been roughed up, followed, spied on, interrogated, and forced into uncomfortable conversations like this one. The other party was always a member of your pack. Peter and Jackson have behaved better than you, Scott. Do you get that?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At Stiles' words, Scott cringes. "Really?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Really," Stiles confirms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sorry, Stiles, I knew this was a bad idea, but… I didn't want him to come alone, either," Malia mutters. She tugs on Scott's arm. "C'mon, let's go, Scott. He wants space. He won't come back just because you ask him. I told you it's not that simple." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Remaining silent, and trying to remain strong, he watches Malia tug them away. He waits until they're fifty feet away, on a path that will take them to the main doors of the store, and then he exhales and runs his hands through his hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He and Scott haven't been close for a long time. They'd started breaking apart years before he left Beacon Hills. It hadn't been a surprise when Scott pulled away after the nogitsune; it hadn't been a surprise when Scott took Theo's side over his. He'd already been pulling away from Stiles because of his werewolf transformation—or that is what Stiles assumes had caused the original rift. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It still hurts to see him and be reminded of the fact that they're no longer best friends, though. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he watches Malia's taller head disappear through the doors, a magazine rack blocking all but the soft waves of her short hair, he wonders if there would ever be a time when he could move past his hurt feelings. He wonders what it would be like to rejoin the pack. It's a fantasy, but he can't help but wonder… what would it be like to experience the full moon with them? what would it be like to be greeted with a hug or two and scenting instead of careful looks and awkward words? what would it be like to have their trust and confidence? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles gives himself a shake. It will never happen. He can't trust them to stand next to him or to support him; they proved that he isn't worthy, and he's on his own path. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He ducks into one of the refrigerators and pulls out a container of a frozen fruit dessert. It looks like some sort of sorbet; he knows Magnus likes sweets, so he puts a couple containers in his cart. He hopes John will enjoy it, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With few lines at that time of day, it only takes a few minutes to pay for his cartful of food. He casts a faint preservation charm on each bag—with a little extra cooling </span>
  <em>
    <span>oomph</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the bag with the sorbet-like treat—as soon as he steps outside and feels the sun shining down the top of his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The prickle along his spine returns. He assumes Scott and Malia are still lurking and watching him; he loads his groceries into the back seat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn't until the dart lands in his flank that he realises he was wrong. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>In the old ruins of the church, or temple, or whatever it was, Stiles found it hard to see the big picture with his human eyes. There was a fight; Kate's lackey in the bone get-up was very effective at knocking everyone into walls. But, Stiles knew he was missing something because the gleam in Kate's eyes was far too bright for a run-of-the-mill berserker encounter. There was something about that fight that was… well, she seemed to be aroused by the chaos she was causing. She'd always enjoyed her work, but she appeared to be enjoying it </span>
  </em>
  <span>a lot.</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles pulled himself back, hiding against the stone altar in the middle of the room, and he forced himself to try to see what he was missing. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The body of the berserker was broad, solid, and very male. Stiles could see hair against his chest and under his arms. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He could see… </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>At the first twitch of the berserker's left hand, a brush of a thumb along the inside of four fingers, Stiles knew who it was. He'd seen that gesture when Derek tried to growl Stiles and Scott off his property, before he bit Gerard, when Erica and Boyd returned and asked to rejoin Derek's pack, and when Derek realised he was losing his powers. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He was on his feet before he realised what he was doing. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Derek, stop! Please!" he shouted. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Everyone in the pack looked at him as if he were crazy.  Not letting their reactions distract him, he took a step towards Derek. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Derek, you have to fight whatever control she has over you, whatever spell it is," he said. "You're our alpha. You're stronger than her. Please." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Cora joined him, whining softly in her throat. "Der?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"He can't hear you," Kate purred, still looking pleased and undaunted. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek took a wooden step towards them. His fluid, quiet way of moving was lost to the spell and its accessories. Stiles ached to pull it all from his body to reveal his true identity—even if he knew Kate's control meant Derek would probably kill him before he could touch any of the bony armour pieces. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Well, if he can't hear me…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles sucked in a sharp breath and roared as best as he could. Scott, Feliks, and Isaac snorted, but Cora, Erica, and Boyd added their roars to his. Derek shuddered and bowed his head. Stiles roared again. Everyone in the room who was pack roared back the second time, even Scott. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They were all so focused on Derek, struggling to break free, that they didn't notice Malia running into the room and launching herself at Derek. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Thankfully, Cora saw her at the last minute. She stepped between them and pushed her flat palm to Malia's centre. Malia fell back, looking dazed, but no one stopped to explain their actions to her. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Derek!" Stiles shouted. "We're here. Fight!" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Kate pushed herself off the stone wall and started walking towards them. Cora moved between Kate and Stiles, as if she remembered Stiles was the weakest link and the easiest target, and she hissed and roared and howled. Kate was saying something; Stiles couldn't hear her over the sound of the pack calling for their alpha, but he watched her. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It happened as soon as Kate touched Derek's back. Stiles rushed forward, to push her grubby paw off of Derek, but he stopped when he felt an increase in pressure in the air around him. He didn't think anyone else could feel it; if they had, they surely would have reacted. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They only reacted when Derek twisted and head-butted Kate while wearing that skull on his face. Derek roared; they roared in response, and the cacophony built as he reached up and broke the mask in two with his hands. In the shadows, Derek's eyes glowed bright red. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It was the first time Stiles saw them glow that colour since he returned to his rightful age. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As Stiles breathed his relieved thanks out to the universe (because the pack could not keep going without a </span>
  </em>
  <span>whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>alpha, even though Derek did his best over the last few months), Kate assessed the situation and decided to run. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek looked over his pack. He settled on Stiles last, nodding at him, before he turned his head sharply to the darkest corner of the chamber. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Peter," he growls. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Emerging from the shadows, Peter smirked as he sauntered towards them. "Well, nephew, it looks like you got your groove back," he said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles looked from Peter to Malia. He wanted to tell her that he was right—that Peter had basically set her up to kill Derek and be sacrificed for the effort, so he could take what was left of Derek's dying alpha powers; once he thought about it, the pieces came together surprisingly quickly—but he couldn't find the words. Her biological father had sent her into a battle, knowing that he would probably kill her once she'd killed her cousin; it made Stiles feel incredibly sad. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He felt sad for Derek, too. Stiles had thought the remaining Hales were becoming closer and were starting to make amends for past actions. Knowing he was an opportunistic jerk, Stiles doubted Peter actually wanted Derek dead. It was more likely that Peter saw the Hale alpha energy fading from the world; he probably aligned with Kate, even tangentially, to take a moment to strike and try to reclaim that family power before Kate completely destroyed it with her berserker energy. That wouldn't make Peter's betrayal more palatable. He wasn't sure if Peter would ever be welcomed back after conspiring with Kate. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek growled and leapt across the room without taking one running step. As he soared, Stiles saw the pieces of his grotesque outfit fly away; he thought it was magic or the strength of Kate's control fading, but then he realised Derek's form was changing. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He was… </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whoa.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek was a wolf! </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He landed as an actual four-legged wolf, all clothing and armour discarded. Stiles thought he heard Cora gasp, but he couldn't turn to look at her; his eyes were fixated on Derek as he landed on Peter's chest and snarled. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter didn't fight. He yielded. He whined and tipped his head back, exposing his neck, and Derek stepped off of him as he shifted back into a very naked man. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He knew he'd be filing that image away for his private Stiles time, and he absolutely hated himself for that. Derek didn't deserve Stiles' perving over him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Cora, Boyd," Derek said as he stood up, "keep everyone together here and watch Peter. We'll deal with him later." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And then Derek ran out of the chamber, as hot on Kate's heels as he could have possibly been. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles hates drugs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He especially hates drugs when they're injected into his body without his consent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he comes back to some sort of wakeful state, his head's throbbing is matched by a pulsing sensation from where his new tattoos are hiding. The healing salve Alec had given him usually takes care of the aches and itches, but he'd last applied it the morning Caolán had turned up in Beacon Hills. He doesn't know how many minutes, hours, or days have passed since then; he doesn't even know if he's in Beacon County. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All he can tell, without opening his eyes, is that he's tied to a chair in a damp-aired, quiet room. When he hears footsteps overhead, he assumes he's in a basement. It feels finished; the flooring feels soft under his boots. The space doesn't feel like it would echo, either. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, he's in a house that probably has a finished basement. He can't tell if it's furnished or not, but he assumes it is because, again, it doesn't sound like an empty space. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of opening his eyes, he concentrates on the pulse on his thigh, where his newest tattoos are located. He isn't surrounded by anything too bad, as far as he can tell; he can feel his magic, inside his body and under his skin, and he knows he still has his crystal in his pocket. He doesn't think he can </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> anything, at least not until the drugs completely clear his system, but that isn't the most worrying thing about his current predicament. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The loud mouth breathing on the other side of the room steals his focus and adjusts his priorities. He isn't going to risk attempting to escape until he knows what sort of situation he's facing; he isn't going to know what sort of situation he's facing until he can open his eyes. Since opening his eyes would be a dead giveaway to the other person in the room, Stiles decides pretending as long as he can is his best course of action. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Doing his best to stay calm and still, Stiles wracks his brain. His vehicle is still at the grocery store. Eventually, someone will find it, and he hopes the someone is Feliks or Peter or one of the other werewolves who's been trying to follow him around town; if a random deputy finds it, they'll run the plates and discover it's registered to the company through which Jimmy Travers conducts his financial business, and they'll assume a tourist is lost or missing. He needs someone who has seen his vehicle to find it because they have a better chance of realising Stiles wouldn't have left it like that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That depends on whether or not his abductor left his vehicle at the grocery store, of course. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That also depends on whether or not anyone will realise Stiles is missing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If his father's awake, he'll notice—if he's not too busy having father-and-son time with Feliks, or pack time with a roomful of guests. Feliks probably won't notice; he'd never been particularly observant when it came to Stiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, Caolán will notice. Stiles had only intended to go get a few groceries; after a few hours, Caolán will worry, if his own instincts haven't already told him something is wrong. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will Caolán be able to find him, though? Stiles isn't sure about that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Deaton is involved, there's a chance the house is warded or shielded in some way. That could be a problem. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán has a grip on the situation, though. He knows Deaton's name. He is with John, who could call Jordan to look for rental—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter was looking for rental properties, trying to find where the shooter is hiding. If Caolán can convince John, and John can rally the pack—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, the pack might not look for Stiles. They'll probably assume he left again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He almost sighs; he's able to suppress the urge, though, thankfully. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Knowing he shouldn't count on anyone else to save him, Stiles continues to think through his situation. He knows there's more than one person; the heavy breather is in the room with him, so they can't be the person or people moving on the floor above them. While he's good in a fight, he isn't sure what sort of limitations he has. His boot blade is probably still in the sole, but he didn't arm himself in any other way before heading to the grocery store; his everyday weaponry is either in the house or in his vehicle. Stiles knows he'll have to be strategic in his planning, taking each opponent down as carefully as possible so he can encounter each obstacle on its own instead of all at once. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His thigh pulses. The crystal feels warm in his pocket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While he understands the basic principles of his animal guardian tattoos, he hasn't yet tried to use them. Alec advised he give it a bit of time, to let the flesh heal and the ink potion bond with his energy; Stiles had originally planned to test it once he was on his way to his next job, but once he'd turned to Beacon Hills, instead, he'd figured it would be a while before he could test it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he were ever left alone, and if he could access and use his magic, he should try it. The magic might allow him to look around the house and property so he could get a better idea of what he will be facing. Additionally, he might be able to send his guardians out into the world to find Caolán. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles' observer sighs and he hears the sound of furniture moving. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fuck, this is boring." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His heavily breathing watchdog is male and heavy, judging by his footsteps on the floor—and on the stairs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the door at the top of the stairs opens and then closes, Stiles waits a long time before peeking through his eyelashes. He can't see or hear anyone else; he opens his eyes completely and looks around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's in a house. A perfectly normal house. He sees a bookshelf, a sofa, an armchair… there's a television mounted on the wall at his right side. Through the gap in the curtains over the small and high windows, he sees a well-manicured lawn; dense trees line what Stiles guesses in a backyard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only thing to suggest he's not in a mundane home is the ring of mistletoe and mountain ash around him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles almost laughs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Certainly, mountain ash can be used to contain anyone with enough power and belief. It can also allow exclusive access to some while shutting out others—particularly of the therianthrope variety—if the person using it has a spark of magical energy. Stiles had used it to keep hunters from entering a cave, once; he knows it's possible to bend the use of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, for magic users, mountain ash isn't the deterrent hunters think it to be. It absolutely can be used as a barrier against them—he's seen it done—but magic users use it for protection, too, so it's not the most effective material to use when trapping someone with even a hint of magical power inside of them. It depends on the strength of will and energy imbued into the material and magic users often outstrip hunters in that way. Stiles has always felt an affinity for the wood, in all its shapes and sizes; he isn't sure why the wood responds to him the way it does, but he's always been glad for it. It would take a strong magical force to contain Stiles with mountain ash. If he's lucky, he'll still be able to use his magic while allegedly contained. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The mistletoe isn't a concern, either. It is a poison—but no one is feeding it to him—and he knows it takes a miracle to heal a werewolf who's been dosed with it. Aside from it's toxic qualities, or in contrast with them, it is also used in sanctuary spells and peace rituals. Some branches of magic casting even require it for healing. He doesn't understand why it's in the ash circle; he can imagine that maybe they have a magic user and it has been included to protect </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span> from </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but they don't know that he's far more concerned with getting out of his predicament than burning the house to the ground and killing his abductors in the process. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The one concern around which he can't work is the pair of metal shackles around his wrists. They don't feel like they're suppressing or diminishing his abilities, but they're doing something. He can't discern what that something is; even though he isn't sure, he assumes their intention is to prevent the use of his magical power. Until he knows what the cuffs are doing, for certain, he doesn't feel comfortable trying to remove them himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As capable as he is, he realises he's going to need help. Caolán will keep his father safe, he's sure, and Magnus and Alec are at least on their way, depending on how much time has passed. Jordan might participate in the search, if he's aware that Stiles has been snatched up, but his best bet for assistance will be his magic-wielding friends. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He needs to figure out a way to contact them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While there are specific spells, charms, and rituals, Stiles knows his own gifts are far more rooted in belief than anything else. Magnus has a creative knack for constructing spells that shouldn't be possible—like his convenient portals—and he's able to teach people how to cast his spells. Stiles' magic isn't like that; he can wield spells when he's able to focus, but he has more success by believing and wishing, concentrating his will into making something happen. He knows how to recreate the fire messages that many of his friends use when they can't reach out in mundane ways; he has only been able to make them work once, though, so he can't rely on the spell. He could try to project his voice to Caolán; he could also end up sending his voice shouting all over Beacon Hills if he pushes too hard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the crystal warms even more, Stiles closes his eyes and sags. He could reach out to the nemeton. It's dangerous with Deaton and the pack, though, and he isn't sure if he can risk her existence for his rescue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Hey, lady,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I know you're tied to the territory and the Hale pack, but can you… can you reach my people? I… if I… well, I've never done this before, but maybe I can project my animal guardians along your ley lines? Could you help them find Alec if he's in town? He's a good person. And he'll know they're mine because he inked them in my skin." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The energy in the crystal builds and recedes, several times, as if it's responding to Stiles' quiet thoughts. He thinks about the nemeton, picturing her in her forest, and then an image of Alec, Magnus, and Caolán standing among mundane trees fades into his mind's eye. They're accompanied by Chris and Jedda, of all people, and Stiles has to open his eyes and blink around the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm losing my mind," he whispers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The crystal's energy pulses turn into staccato beats. Stiles smiles and gives his head a shake. If the nemeton wants him to think Jedda has come to Beacon Hills, he won't spend time trying to convince her that Jedda wouldn't concern herself with a dispute between hunters and a magic user. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He closes his eyes again and focuses on the magical intentions inked into the skin of his thigh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It tickles enough that he opens his eyes. He sees what must have been one of the leys lines, visualised, crossing through him and the room (which is another piece of evidence he didn't have a few minutes ago and concerns him if he were placed in that spot deliberately), and then he sees shimmering, ghost-like images of a big black wolf and a small river otter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey guys," he murmurs. "Can you go with the nemeton and find Alec and Magnus for me? Maybe lead them back here? No werewolves—there's too much mountain ash and mistletoe lying around." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The wolf actually nods before taking the ley line path out of the house. The otter simply scampers after their partner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles stares out along the path they took, long after the vision fades from his sight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Footsteps and voices get louder as they move overhead. After taking a deep breath, Stiles tries to swallow down his anticipation as he prepares to meet his abductors. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning for vague torturous situation.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>"And the body was gone?" Derek asked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles nodded. When John pressed the antiseptic into the wound on his shoulder, he flinched and hissed. John murmured low words designed to soothe him; he was trying, but nothing could calm Stiles down after the events of that night. It was taking all his determination not to go to pieces in front of both of them. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Are you sure there's nothing we need to put in the wound?" John asked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Without tearing his eyes away from Stiles' face, Derek said, "I have no idea about lampreys, but there's nothing in a wendigo's mouth but sharp teeth." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The memory of Donovan's teeth in his shoulder put a cold, heavy weight in his stomach. He'd come so close to dying. Donovan had intended for him to be a message—to his father, to the pack—and he paid for his attempt with his life. As clearly as he could remember the pain and fear of being bitten, Stiles could also remember the sound Donovan made when he—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh god—</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You're safe," Derek said. He took Stiles' hands and put them on his chest. "Breathe with me. In… and out… come on, feel what I'm doing." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He tried, but his lungs felt as if they were squeezed shut. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When his father tried to hug him, it only added to the pressure, pushing in on him from all directions, inside and outside of his body. It was too much—the fear, the relief, the guilt, the shame—and Stiles didn't know how to breathe through it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles, I need you to listen to me," Derek said. He punctuated his words with the red alpha glow of his eyes. "You're safe. It was an accident. You're allowed to be upset. But no one here with you right now blames you or thinks you went after him. He hunted you down, Stiles, and you were just trying to get away." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Looking into the bright red in Derek's eyes, Stiles felt the panic fading away. Derek had always treated him as if he were pack. Derek wouldn't sugarcoat the truth for him; Derek wouldn't waste time or energy on that, the same way Stiles would tell Derek the truth in dire situations. They'd been through too much since Scott had been bitten by Peter. Surely, of all the people in Stiles' life, he could count on Derek to be steady and sturdy and true. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"That's better," Derek said, nodding and smiling a little. His eyes still glowed; it wasn't intimidating, like it could be, and Stiles almost found it comforting. "Deep breaths, Stiles. Just keep breathing. Wendigos don't turn people with their teeth. Neither do lampreys. I don't blame you, your dad doesn't blame you. You're going to be fine. You're not alone." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek only ever talked a lot when Stiles was in trouble. He would've made a comment about that, but Stiles didn't want him to stop talking. With every word Derek said, Stiles could feel the fear and panic fade away. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Once John patched up and covered Stiles' wound, he went to the kitchen and got Stiles a bottle of juice. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Drink that, son," he murmured, putting it in Stiles' hand. "And then you can go get cleaned up and ready for be—"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Not yet," Derek interjected. Stiles looked from his juice to Derek; his eyes were normal again. "Stiles, I need you to tell me everything. Where you went, what you touched, anything you might have left behind—anything the Dread Doctors might have left behind. I'll go—"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I don't think we need to do that tonight," John said. "My deputies didn't see anything. Stiles should rest." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"He's going to be thinking about this all night," Derek insisted. "And it won't be your deputies who find something with the way the Dread Doctors have been cleaning up after their experiments. I'm worried about anyone in the pack—or any of the chimeras—finding something and coming to or after Stiles." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>John sighed and sat down next to Stiles, but Stiles was staring at Derek. Most days, Stiles felt as if he were on the periphery of the pack, but Derek… he acted like Stiles was really a part of it. He acted as if he cared about Stiles. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"All right," John agreed. "Let's go over this. From the beginning." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles opened his mouth to start from the point when he'd been fixing his jeep, but the front door unlocked and opened. Feliks, Scott, Theo, and Malia tumbled into the house, laughing and carrying on amongst themselves. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It wasn't the first time Feliks brought Theo to the house, but it was the first time he'd done so after Derek told the pack to stay away from him until Derek—and the whole pack—decided if he could be trusted. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek's response to the sight was to growl. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>As soon as she heard him, Malia's smile faded. Derek stood and crossed the room so he was standing between them and John and Stiles. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks bowed his head. "Derek—" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"How many times have you three gone behind my back?" Derek asked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Lighten up," Scott said, smiling. "We're just hanging out." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Three times since you told us not to for them, once for me," Malia admitted. She earned a squawk from Scott and a glare from Feliks. She shrugged. "Sorry." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Off to the side, Theo smirked. "How can I ever become pack if your wolves don't get to know me, Derek?" he asked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek stood up and walked toward the group. "You could start by following pack tradition," he said. "You should know some of it if you're actually from the twins' pack. But, everything you've done since you popped up out of the shadows shows zero understanding for how a pack works." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Theo's smirk didn't waver. Stiles looked to the rest of the pack. Scott and Feliks were scowling; Malia was staring at Derek with a curious or puzzled expression on her face. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"We're classmates," Feliks said. "Why can't we hang out?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek didn't look away from Theo as he answered Feliks' question. "I asked you to not bring him to the pack's safe places until we decide if he's joining us, Feliks," he said. "Are you willing to risk him bringing danger to our doors?" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"He's like us!" Scott protested. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Is he?" Derek asked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks and Scott didn't see Theo's reaction, but Stiles, Malia, and Derek did. When Theo's nose wrinkled for a split second, Derek's eyes glowed red and Malia's shoulders stiffened. Stiles looked at Theo and wondered if Derek's supposed suspicions were accurate. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He came at roughly the same time as the Dread Doctors and chimeras. He seemed suspicious—Stiles hadn't trusted him from the beginning, because he never trusted new people—but Stiles thought he was just being, well, himself, until that moment when Derek refused to back down from Theo's challenge. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Fine," Theo said. "I can play by the rules. We'll hang out at school tomorrow then. Malia, Scott, you need a ride?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'll drive Malia home," Feliks said. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Take Scott, too," Derek said. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Malia nodded, either agreeing with his decision or approving of it, and let her eyes drift from Derek to Stiles. As she looked at him, her nostrils flared. She opened her mouth, looked at John at Stiles' side, and closed her mouth again. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Fine, you're the boss, right?" Theo said as he turned and left the house.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek's shoulders relaxed. He turned to Malia and tilted his head. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Can you do a patrol tonight?" he asked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Is Erica—"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"At the loft, waiting. I told her I'd ask if I see you," Derek said. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Malia grinned. "Perfect," she said. "A run is just what I need tonight." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek nodded and thanked her before turning his attention to Feliks and Scott. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Problem?" he asked them. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You can't tell us who we can be friends with!" Scott protested. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nodding again, Derek said, "You're right. I can't and I wouldn't. But, what if he hurts someone in the pack? Or, what if he hurts someone normal and brings hunters here? Are you willing to bet on everyone's lives right now?" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott sighed. "Okay, okay, fine…" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm not saying 'no,' but I need to know he's not a threat to any of us," Derek added. "It's not just your social calendar I have to think about. By bringing Theo here, you may have put the Sheriff and Stiles at risk, do you get that?" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Theo already knows Stiles knows about us—" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"We get it, Derek," Feliks said, cutting off Scott's protest. "We'll be more careful." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Does he know where the loft is?" Derek asked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I didn't tell him anything," Feliks said. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott sighed. "He's not going to do anything—" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"What did you tell him?" Derek asked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Just… he asked about the pack," Scott replied. "He wanted to know… how we are—if we're like his old pack. So I told him how we spend the full moons and—" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Everything he needs to know if he's going to hurt us when we least expect it," Derek interjected. "Nice." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Scowling up at him, Scott shouted, "He's not a bad guy! He helps us when the chimeras attack! Why can't you just trust people!?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Everyone except for Scott knew he'd crossed a line. Malia took a step towards Derek; Feliks followed her lead, but Stiles couldn't tell if the action was a conscious choice or something his werewolf instincts told him to do. John put his hand on Stiles' uninjured shoulder and squeezed gently, while Stiles glared at Scott. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Trust was extremely difficult for Derek. Since he'd returned to Beacon Hills, he'd gotten a lot better with the idea of letting people into his life; it was rough going, especially after that first year, but forming a pack helped and he got better. Still, Scott trusted everyone—no matter what they'd done or what they could do—and Derek had already paid the price for that trust a couple times over the years. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles didn't want him to pay for it again. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles doesn't remain alone for long. Once one hunter realises he's awake, he shouts for the others and he's surrounded by a group of six burly, plaid-clad neanderthals; each one of them lives up to the to the redneck bully stereotype in varying degrees, and Stiles has to swallow all the insults he wants to throw their way. He can tell, by the way they crack their knuckles (</span>
  <em>
    <span>oh my god</span>
  </em>
  <span>, could they be more predictable?), that they're spoiling for a fight and he doesn't want to give it to them when he's shackled to a more-sturdy-than-he'd-anticipated chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One hunter seems to be the ringleader. He's a little smaller than the others, but the cruel emptiness in his eyes suggests he earned his position by being the meanest of the bunch. The others step aside when he walks forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We've got some questions for you, Jimmy," he says. "Or is it Stiles?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I changed my name when I moved away. Wanted to forget this place," Stiles lies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hunter smirks. "Didn't seem to matter when your old man got hurt," he says. "You still came runnin' into our trap. Can't be all that separated from your life here." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes all of Stiles' restraint not to criticise the hunters' work. It was smart, bringing Jimmy Travers to a place where they're lying in wait for him, but they wasted a lot of time while Stiles watched John heal. If Stiles had set the trap, he knows he would've acted much more quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You shot my dad, of course I came back," Stiles says. "I may have cut them out of my life, but I didn't abandon my father." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well. You still came back, so I still win," the hunter decides. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Conceding his point, Stiles nods his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So, now what?" he asks. "Questions?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you don't mind," the hunter says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs his shoulders as much as he can. "Well, I've got nothing but time," he responds, smirking when the hunter chuckles. "What's on your mind?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I have a couple of questions about the location of two of your rescued animals, and then our gracious benefactor wants me to ask you about some friends of yours," the hunter says. "I want to clear my record and apparently you keep company with people who have some mighty valuable objects in their possession."  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Deaton hired these hunters, he picked a good group. Jimmy Travers had gotten in the way of them wiping out a pack—which is what it sounds like they'd been in the process of doing, considering his mention of his record—and Deaton probably only had to say that he wants Stiles (as Jimmy) dead in the end to convince the hunters to work for someone connected to a local werewolf pack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't keep track of everyone I help—bad for business if I do, really," he says. "I mean… every time I save someone from psychopaths like you—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles sees the fist coming and braces for impact.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The rain made it hard to hear Scott's words, but he did—and his heart shattered at the sound of them. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Still, he looked from Scott to Theo and </span>
  </em>
  <span>refused</span>
  <em>
    <span> to show weakness. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah, because you're Scott McCall!" Stiles shouted, derision and disbelief in his tone. "You're the pack's moral compass—so straight and true that you think you're above all of us! I was hunted down and attacked, and no one was coming to save me—was I supposed to let Donovan kill me? Guess that's why Dad has twins, huh? There's a backup?!" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Behind Scott, Theo grinned and showed off his fangs. Stiles bit back the shiver of revulsion Theo's presence always managed to stir up inside of him; he turned his focus to Scott and caught sight of glowing gold eyes. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"We're not supposed to be killers!" Scott insisted. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"No, you'd let everyone die around you," Stiles said. "I'm not wired that way, Scott. He threatened my brother and my dad. He threatened the pack and then he said he was going to eat me. Something had to be done." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"But the way that it happened… there's a point when it's… when it's not self-defense anymore!" Scott protested. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Theo's grin grew ever wider. In that moment, Stiles knew Scott had been told something other than the truth. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"This life has turned you into a killer, Stiles!" Scott continued. "I… this isn't right. Does Derek know? Does your dad?" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah, they know the truth," Stiles replied. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott's expression turned dark. "I have to stop him. He's going to destroy all of us," he growled. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"And what will that make you?" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"The alpha," Scott said, the growl still in his voice. "And then I can put a stop to everything the way Derek should've done years ago. One more death, and then we can be better." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles blinked in surprise. Theo must have been feeding Scott a lot of crazy, because Scott sounded absolutely out of his mind. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott turned and marched away. Before Theo turned away, too, he winked. Stiles wished he had something in his hands to throw at the back of his head—but he recovered quickly as he realised what Scott was planning to do, and he ran for the shelter of the clinic's doorway so he could pull his phone out of his pocket. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When Derek answered the phone, Stiles didn't let him say anything. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Theo told Scott about me and… and Donovan. But, I don't think Theo told him the truth," he said. "He's pissed and he thinks it's your fault and he's coming after you. He's going to—" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Kill me to become alpha?" </span>
  <em>
    <span>Derek supplied. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I think so," Stiles muttered. "I'm so sorry, Derek. I didn't mean for this to happen!" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek sighed in his ear. </span>
  </em>
  <span>"Stiles, I need you to listen to me. This isn't your fault. Donovan was going to kill you… and… I'm very glad you're still alive," he said. "Same goes for your family. Donovan was angry and violent and he wanted to hurt you to hurt your dad." </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"But, Scott—" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I think Theo's been very busy,"</span>
  <em>
    <span> Derek interrupted, his voice quiet. </span>
  </em>
  <span>"Don't worry. Boyd, Erica, and Cora are here. It's going to be fine. You go home and I'll call you when it's over." </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Please don't die," Stiles whispered before Derek ended the call. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He looked down at his phone and headed towards his bike. When something hard struck the back of his head, Stiles barely registered the sensation before he started to drop into unconsciousness.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a thorough beating, the icy water is almost a delight. It sprinkles down onto his bruised and swollen face and soothes some of the inflammation left behind by the hunters' fists and boots when Stiles' silence and snark weren't seen as adequate answers to their questions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Leave him here," the ringleader says, once Stiles' shackles are secured to the safety bar. "Keep the water cold. He can't hold up forever." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before anyone can say anything else, his phone rings. He chuckles and answers it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, Alan, we've got him, but he's not ready to talk yet," he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The name confirms Stiles' suspicions. He keeps his gaze focused on the tiles as water continues to stream down on him; the hunters who hauled him into the tub are watching him and he doesn't want to tip them off that he knows anything about their "gracious benefactor," as they called him. He just needs to figure out what Deaton wants from him. So far, the ringleader's questions have been about a pair of werewolves he'd rescued and taken to a pack in rural New York, but he'd alluded to having questions about Stiles' friends, and Stiles needs to know that information before he resumes looking for an escape. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Magic isn't perfect. Either his animal guardians couldn't find Magnus or Caolán or anyone to save him, they fizzled out because the tattoos haven't yet healed, or Deaton's control of the territory blocks overt magic done by other casters; no matter the reason, it seems clear that his first plan failed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His second plan, whatever it will be, has to wait until Stiles figures out how his friends are in danger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels warmth from his magical energy reserves seeping through his body. It kills him to rein it in—it often acts on impulses when Stiles is in serious trouble—but he can't appear unaffected in front of his audience. Cold tap water </span>
  <em>
    <span>probably</span>
  </em>
  <span> won't kill him. He'll get cold and start shivering and wish for it to stop, but the hunters are delusional if they think they're more terrifying than Gerard Argent in that moment. He didn't break down under Gerard's rough treatment (and that man could wield an effective threat as easily as a fist or weapon); he won't break down under a little cold water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Margo, tiara. Morgana, stones," the ringleader said. "And… Bane, white book. Got it. We're gonna break out the big guns soon. We'll get your answers." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Letting his eyes flutter closed, Stiles lets that information cycle through his mind. Margo has a pile of artifacts—most of them jewelry—and he knows there are two magical tiaras in her collection. One, she has never told him from where she obtained it; the other, Stiles knows she commissioned it, because the largest gem is the result of some accidental magic and Stiles had found her an artist to make the piece. The only stones Stiles can think of in Morgana's arsenal are the smooth rocks she uses when reaching out to the spirit of someone recently deceased; they're not objects of necromancy, but they help her stay focused and Stiles is pretty sure they're imbued with her strength after all the use they've had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The most concerning item on that list is the book. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Lost Book of the White,</span>
  </em>
  <span> as engraved on its cracked leather cover, is going to remain lost and is never going to see the light of day; Magnus sealed it in a lead-lined, magically-locked box, with Stiles as the only witness. Stiles doesn't know where Magnus hid it—it's too dangerous for anyone to know where it's hidden. The spells and magical theory inside of it weren't explicitly dangerous; however, they'd both decided that the collection could be dangerous in the wrong hands and it should be kept hidden. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Deaton wants that book…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ugh.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>How does Deaton even know Magnus is the last one to have seen the book? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Watch him," the ringleader says. "Bring him back to the chair when he turns blue or after three hours—whichever comes first. I'll go get dinner and check that the mutts are still oblivious." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that order, the ringleader leaves the room and the other hunters form a circle around him. Stiles almost laughs, because they're so serious about watching him, but he holds it in and tries to think of a plan that could help him escape. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I never lied about why I came to Beacon Hills. I'm here for a pack," Theo spit out as he kicked his sneaker-clad foot into Stiles' side. "I came for the werecoyote—the one whose first instinct is to kill.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I came for the banshee—the girl surrounded by death. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I came for the dark kitsune who slices through her enemies," Theo continued. Each sentence was punctuated by another kick. "And I came for Void Stiles, for all the chaos and destruction he makes as easy as breathing. That's the pack I want.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Unfortunately, it doesn't include the deluded Scott—or the Hales and their </span>
  </em>
  <span>dying</span>
  <em>
    <span> pack traditions."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles brought a hand to his ribcage, trying and failing to soothe the pain in his body. Theo was actually insane; he'd known something was off about Theo, but he hadn't realised how deep that problem ran. He'd manipulated Scott to go after Derek—and, just like Peter had when he sent Malia after a disguised Derek, he fully intended to kill Scott and get the alpha power for himself. And it was all for nothing, because he knew Malia, Lydia, and Kira would never align themselves with Theo after that blood was spilled. Additionally, as much as he feared a return of the nogitsune, it was gone—trapped in a box of nemeton wood, buried in a chest filled with mountain ash, and placed in the Hales' vault. There was no chance of a return of Void Stiles, as Theo called the creature; still, Theo acted like he thought hurting Stiles would earn him that particular prize on his path to greatness. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You've got it buried down inside of you, but I know how to get it out," Theo growled. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He gestured towards someone in the shadows. When they obeyed Theo, Stiles saw it was one of the chimeras. He didn't know what hybrid the teenager was, and all Stiles could think was </span>
  </em>
  <span>wraith</span>
  <em>
    <span> at the sight of the two long spikes emerging from his hands—but he assumed that was because he used to enjoy watching </span>
  </em>
  <span>Supernatural</span>
  <em>
    <span> before his life became a non-stop adventure between werewolves and hunters. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Just like with us, pain should do it," Theo explained. "Stab him. Just once. Do it again if he doesn't change." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He crouched down, briefly, and said, "Can't wait to meet you, Void Stiles. Come find me when you're free." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles wanted to laugh, but he didn't have a death wish. If he were still possessed, and Theo's scheme worked, Stiles knew the nogitsune would only entertain the idea of joining Theo's pack long enough to figure out how to destroy Theo. (And it wouldn't take long at all.) The nogitsune had never allowed himself to be used; he would ruin Theo for thinking he could control the fox spirit. Theo'd had no idea what the nogitsune really was before he'd hatched his plan. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Theo ordered the chimera to stay in the ruined tunnel until Stiles changed. The kid looked scared even as he nodded. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It took some time for him to work up the courage to approach Stiles. When he knelt down in the dirt, he braced his free hand on Stiles' chest as he brought the hand still showing its long spike into position. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You're gonna be fine," the kid said. "Theo's sure." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At that, he brought the spike down in a swift movement, piercing into Stiles' abdomen. It didn't hurt at first, but then a blossom of icy and burning pain flooded his nerves and made him cry out. His vision darkened and he turned his head away from his attacker; he didn't want the kid to see him cry. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Theo's an idiot," Stiles croaked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Malia and Erica roared from the tunnel opening, but Derek was the first through the crumbling hole. The kid wet his pants as Derek added his roar to the mix and flashed his red eyes. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Sourwolf, you're alive," Stiles breathed before giving into the pain and doing the most manly thing he could manage—passing out.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>1. Warning for less-vague (but not super explicit, think show-level) torturous scenes. </p><p>2. I added this story to a series, because I keep thinking about what will follow---or if something should follow. It will probably be a while before I finish the second story (I only have its plot notes written out now), so I wanted a way for you guys to follow/subscribe and be updated when I update the series (if you'd like to see where I take the story) instead of trying to be on the lookout for it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When the ringleader picks up a small blowtorch, Stiles knows he isn't going to like it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Take off his boots." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles had been hoping to hold onto his footwear, because there's a knife built into the sole of each of them and they could've been useful during his escape attempt, but he is tied again to the chair and he is still wearing the shackles that prevent most of his magic from being used. He knows he isn't a match for the two hunters that approach him. One holds onto his leg to still him when he kicks out at them; the other pulls off his boot and sock before they move onto the other leg. His struggles to do little to discourage them from removing his footwear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his bare feet on the floor, Stiles realises he </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> isn't going to like the blowtorch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"All you have to do is tell us what we wanna know, Jimmy," the ringleader says. "Where are the wolves? Where—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles spits at him. His red-tinged saliva falls short, landing on the floor in front of the hunter. "I told you I have no fucking clue where they are," he says. "I don't want to know, like I already said, in case someone like you decides to kill more innocent people!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ringleader grins. "I'm going to enjoy this," he says as he crouches down at Stiles' side. "Let's see if a little heat loosens your tongue." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It only loosens his tongue in the way that it sets Stiles screaming. With the flame against the side of his foot and with two hunters holding him down while the ringleader holds the torch to him, all Stiles can do is struggle and holler and cry. There's no shame in letting out his reactions; he learned that lesson before, and he has absolutely no care for the way the ringleader laughs at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shame has no place in torture. It isn't an activity that fosters consideration or humanity, and the hunters are going to enjoy his pain with or without his participation. If he is going to keep his secrets (and his friends' secrets) to himself, it will be considerably easier if he's not trying to rein in his reactions to the pain or feeling ashamed for not being strong enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His foot is in lava. His foot is melting. He keeps burying his truths in imagined dirt, deeper and deeper until all he can think about is molten rock and pain and the longing for real and cool soil. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flame is pulled away. Stiles weeps as silently as he can manage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ready to talk about the tiara or the rocks? What about the book?" the ringleader asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles shakes his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Your friends really worth all that protecting?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After lifting his head, Stiles makes sure he's glaring at the hunter through his teary eyes. "What makes you think they're my friends?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Bane is in town," he says. "I assume the others are on their way." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He is? Wow. You guys should've gone after him," Stiles says in response, while he tries to figure out how they could've known Magnus arrived in Beacon Hills. "If you want his book, only makes sense you'd go after him. Unless you're dumb." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a grin to match Stiles' glare, the ringleader says, "We've got a source. We know he came to stay with you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles narrows it down to Feliks and Scott, but he isn't ruling out someone else in the pack if they were nearby eavesdropping. Liam, for instance, wouldn't hesitate to run to Deaton and tell him everything he overheard if he thought it would be helpful—if what Jordan and Jackson said about him is true and if he's still holding a grudge against Stiles. Feliks and Scott wouldn't have done it with </span>
  <em>
    <span>malicious</span>
  </em>
  <span> intentions, but they would have assumed they know better than Stiles; they would have told Deaton about the magic users Stiles considers friends, and they would have thought they were doing their part to protect the territory and to prepare Deaton for potential trouble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not so dumb, then, any of you," Stiles says. "But, you know Deaton's going to turn on you, right? He won't let you leave the county—not when what you know about him could end up reaching Argent's ears." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We don't leak," one of the other hunters growls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a little laugh that was more hysteria than actual amusement, Stiles says, "You're gonna kill Jimmy Travers and none of you are going to talk about it? Right. Two beers—no, sorry, three, at least, you're manly men—into your night and you'll be telling the whole roadhouse about your victory. No way Deaton's gonna let that risk out into the world. News might get back to someone I work with, and then it might get back to someone here. And then, they'll know Deaton's up to something." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You think we're not smart enough—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Seriously? He's had, what? Thirty years to make his move?" Stiles interjects. "You really think he's going to let a few loose cannons get between him and his goal? I wouldn't be surprised if the poison or trap or whatever he's going to do to you is already in this house." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone but the ringleader looked nervous—and he didn't look all that confident, either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He's been bringing you food, right? I mean, you went out that first night, but since you got my blood all over you, too, it's too risky. I'm sure Deaton warned you, just in case," Stiles continues, pushing on the one weakness he knows he can exploit. "I might not be close with the pack, but they'd recognise the scent of my blood, and they'd probably look for me. They'd assume you're the one who shot my dad, and they'd be right. They'd come looking for you—and Deaton knows this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So, he brought you your food and told you to stay here, where there's no risk of someone with a super smeller finding you. Something could be in your food. I mean, it's take-out, right? How would you know? Fast food can taste a little funny sometimes. Maybe a little like grass? Or dirt? Or maybe the ketchup is just a little more red than it usually is. Easy to mask with a liberal application of cheese or gravy." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the less aggressive hunters claps a hand over his mouth and runs for the bathroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles' satisfaction is marred by the torch, clicked back on and brought close to his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not falling for this trick of yours, Jimmy," the ringleader snarls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Suit yourself," Stiles says with a little shrug, trying to seem nonchalant despite the hot-hot-heat threatening to kiss his cheek. "But, he's going to screw you over. He let his first pack get burned to ashes. There were human children in that pack. You think he cares if you survive this job, so long as he gets what he wants?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ringleader's jaw clenches. Stiles has made his point, and they both know it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of backing down, the ringleader holds up the torch and moves back to Stiles' side. "Hold up his foot, Kevin," he says. "We do the job and then we get the hell out of town, together. Nothing's changed. We're gonna burn a witch." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hunter now known as Kevin wrenches Stiles' leg so it's sticking straight out in front of him; his leader brings the torch's fiery end to the sole of Stiles' foot, and neither of them flinches when Stiles screams. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They do flinch when guns cock behind them, though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles catches sight of Chris with two guns drawn, flanked by Peter with glowing eyes, claws, and fangs, on one side, and by Alec with an arrow knocked in his bow, on his other side. Magnus is behind them, doing something to the walls with his magic so blue light dances along and through the painted drywall; he moves his hands and the walls stop shimmering as his hands curl into fists and light with flames. Jedda steps into the room through the shadows, and that's when Stiles is certain he is hallucinating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As successful as he is in his vocation, Stiles hates that Beacon Hills can turn him into a fainter. He's usually built of sterner stuff; there must be something about his hometown that reduces him to weakness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's his last thought before he gives into the pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Easy, easy," Feliks murmured. "You're okay. I promise." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles didn't open his eyes. He wasn't sure he could. Everything hurt—and not in a healing way. He couldn't explain it, except to think that the chimera's spike was still inside his body. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Something's wrong," Derek said. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He sounded far away, but Stiles knew he had to be nearby because he didn't have werewolf ears. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>In response to Derek's statement, Stiles tried to nod. A machine beeped at a more insistent rate. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Melissa said—" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I don't care," Derek interrupted. "I just know. Something's wrong." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Boyd spoke next. "The chimera said he doesn't have venom. Was he lying?" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"He was too scared to lie," Erica replied. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Malia snorted at that. Then, she sniffed. Stiles felt her approach, despite Derek's quiet growl, and then he heard her sniff again. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"It's… they washed him, right?" Malia asked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Surgery is… there's blood and disinfectant and people," Derek answered her. "The doctors and nurses should cover any scent of what happened." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Isaac sighed. "That's all I smell," he muttered. "I'm going back to the—" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"If you do anything to let Scott out—" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I promise, I won't," Isaac assured Derek, though his tone still seemed terse. "Cora's there, anyway." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Scott tried to kill our alpha," Feliks growled. "He deserves the time-out." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You fell for Theo, too!" Isaac protested. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Guys, stop," Boyd said in his entirely-too-calm voice. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles tried to piece together what had happened—it all sounded so strange. Scott would never try to kill Derek. Scott believed killing was wrong… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And then it all came back to Stiles and he groaned. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The next person who approached him was Derek. Stiles wasn't sure how he knew, but when the warmth of Derek's hand landed on his arm, he just knew that reassuring weight belonged to Derek. He whined softly in his throat and turned his head towards the side where he knew Derek was standing. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"What's wrong, Stiles?" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"He still has the guy on or in him," Malia said. "Something. Blood. Or bone. Maybe part of the skewer." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek must have believed her, or confirmed it with his own sense of smell, if that were possible, because his next words were a request. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Go get Melissa. We need to figure out a way to explain this." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Pain," Stiles whispered. "It's not right." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I know," Derek said in a softer voice. "We're going to figure it out." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles nodded. If Derek and Malia knew something was wrong with him, he was probably safe. He wasn't sure if he trusted Malia, given their recent history, but he did trust Derek. Stiles might not be pack, the way the others were, but he felt sure that, in that moment, Derek had his back.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Stiles wakes up, it's a slow, clumsy process and it takes a few minutes before he realises he's in a hospital bed. And then it takes a few more minutes to realise there are a lot of people in his room. He isn't at his sharpest and he has to remind himself not to pick on himself too much for missing the crowd.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wait, wait," Feliks says. "I thought they shot Dad and took Stiles because they're after the pack." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris huffs, sounding a little amused. "No… if they'd been after the pack, there wouldn't have been anyone left alive," he says. "They've wiped out a few packs in the last few years. Kevin and Morris, they lost a sister to a pack—she ended up marrying and mating the alpha. They saw that as a betrayal. Killed the pack. Killed her, too. After the second pack they attacked, just because, the Traveller got involved. He saved some of the third pack they tried to annihilate… got them to a safe place, from what I understand, and got some safe information to law enforcement about the hunters' activities. Deaton—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek growls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"—yeah, I know. Deaton hired them because they'd be motivated. Lured them in with the promise that they'd be able to find out where the kids were taken so they could finish the job," Chris finishes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles dares to open his eyes. At first, it is just a crack of light against his eyes; when he realises everyone is tucked in the far corner of the room, he opens them wider and looks around to see who is there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek is closest to the bed, but his back is turned towards Stiles so all he can see is the tense line of Derek's raised shoulders. He, Feliks, John, and Caolán are all surrounding Chris, who seems to have the best understanding of the situation. John appears exhausted; his face is pale and his eyes are missing their usual sparkle. Caolán is nearly pressed next to him, as if he expects John to topple over at any given moment. Feliks is standing between Derek and John, and the look of confusion on his face would make Stiles laugh if he hadn't been drugged entirely too much at some point during his current hospital stay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why would they think Stiles knows where he took them?" Feliks asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris' response is lost in a flurry of movement and sound. As Magnus and Alec rush in, they see Stiles is awake and they don't bother to be quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Darling! You absolutely are not allowed to scare us anymore!" Magnus exclaims as he hurries to the bed and leans over to kiss Stiles' forehead above his puffier eye. The ache in his eye decreases slightly. "Especially when I'm mad at you for rushing here without telling any of us what's really going on. Oh, holy hell, I am going to be insufferable for weeks after you come home with us." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Alec chuckles, Magnus pauses and kisses the same spot again before smoothing his fingers along Stiles' cheek and chin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Seriously," Magnus murmurs. "You're one of us. Please don't do this again." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles smiles and puts his hand on Magnus' where it rests on his chest. The contact feels better than anything else has felt in what he suspects was days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I promise," he whispers. Ignoring the curious stares from the people in the room, he looks from Magnus to Alec. "Are you mad at me, too?" he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alec smiles and shrugs. "A little. It'll fade when we get you home and know you're safe. And if it doesn't, we can spar it out once you're healed," he replies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stiles," John says as he makes his way to his bedside. "How are you feeling?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. "Well, I'm pretty high and I'm still in pain, but I'll feel better when I get out of here—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't think that's going to happen for a while," John interrupts. When Alec moves out of the way, only enough, John eases down and perches on the edge of Stiles' bed. "God, son, I've been so worried. You left and you didn't come back—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without hesitation, Stiles reaches out and takes John's hand in his. "I'm fine. I swear. They were more inventive than I expected them to be, but it's noth… it's going to be okay," he murmurs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stiles, I can't… you can't—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles squeezes his father's hand. "Don't ask me to give up my life," he says. "I will try to be more careful, though, okay? And most jobs aren't like this."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smiles, but his eyes are filling with tears. "Stiles, I can't lose you," he admits. "Don't make me go through that." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles looks away from John and toward the others in the room. Feliks is still confused, but he, too, looks like he'd been a little upset at some point in the day. Chris is as difficult to read as always. Caolán is smiling and his eyes appear to be wide with relief; when Stiles nods at him (in thanks for so many things), Caolán nods back as his smile grows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrecked.</span>
  </em>
  <span> His eyes are a little swollen and bloodshot; his beard is too scruffy. His hair looks as if he'd clawed through it several times. Through the superficial evidence, Stiles can see an echo of the expression Derek wore on his face the whole first year after his return to Beacon Hills. It hurts his heart to see Derek that way—when he has no idea why Derek is so affected by recent events. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"C'mon," Alec says, shaking Stiles from his thoughts. When Stiles looks at him, he sees Alec's hand in front of him. "Take what you need. You need to fix your foot a bit." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What did the doctors say?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mostly partial thickness burns," John replies. "They didn't think the torch was too close—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, it was right in there, they were trying to melt a hole in my foot," Stiles interrupts as he grimaces and puts his hand in Alec's to borrow a bit of his friend's energy. It won't miraculously heal him, the way a werewolf would heal, but it will give him some strength and clarity. "I think my healing sigils are going to need some retouching. Might have burned up a couple, so to speak." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alec nods. "We can do that. As soon as we get you back home." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Healing sigils?" Feliks asks. "What… wait. You're really Jimmy Travers? The guy who's basically the supernatural fixer?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Magnus scowls. "You're really a dumb puppy, aren't you?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles snorts and turns his head away from the pack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Feliks can say anything, Magnus continues talking. "Yes, yes, I know, you think you knew your brother and this feels like a betrayal and you want to talk about it with people," he says. "But, if any of you talk about Stiles and Jimmy being the same person, you will have to deal with me. He has the secret identity to protect him—and you. Show him some respect." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Magnus' defense of his actions and secrets is a bit of a surprise, but Stiles isn't shocked to see Magnus has lost his glamour when he looks at him. It often slips away when he's particularly passionate. Everyone from Beacon Hills (with the exception of Stiles, obviously, and Chris and Derek) flinches at the sight of Magnus' cat-like eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What Magnus means to say is that if any of your pack has ever cared for Stiles </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you'll keep your mouths shut," Alec adds. "It won't be just the three of us you'll have to deal with." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Eliot hasn't shown up yet?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Magnus turns to look at him, his eyes still exposed. "We found you before the next check-in," he explains. "And he wouldn't have been helpful with the clean-up, since we apparently need them all alive." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Even Deaton?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a roll of his eyes, Magnus says, "I wanted to kill him. Hell, I still do, to be perfectly honest. He had your hair! And I know he expected you to die, either by his hand or the hunters' hands—we haven't figured it all out yet. But, anyway. Your father's cooler head prevailed. So, I blocked his magic with those cuffs you were forced to wear and some help from your Argent ally." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles looks at Chris and tilts his head against his pillow. At that small show of recognition, Chris nods, clasps his hand to John's shoulder for a brief squeeze, and heads out of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You got my hair?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes. Burned it up and poured the ashes in a stream, so no one can use it to track or trap you," he replies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What else did I miss?" he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Later," Alec suggests, smiling at him. "Close your eyes and get some rest, okay? I know the energy helps, but sleep will help, too." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You guys will stay?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caolán clears his throat. "I'll stay with your father, just in case, but, yes, I imagine we'll all be here when you wake up again," he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles smiles. "Good. Thank you," he murmurs as he shifts from side to side, trying to settle into the mattress. He tests how tired he feels by closing his eyes, and decides he probably still has a few more minutes before his body will demand sleep. "Hey… did I see Jedda, or was I hallucinating?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that question, Caolán chuckles. "She was here. She couldn't stay, but when she heard you were in trouble—and I have no idea how, but she did—she rushed here to help," he tells Stiles. "She said to tell you that she will teach you something the next time you come to the meeting place—without the survival challenge to join them and learn their ways." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sweet," Stiles crows quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trying to imagine what Jedda might decide to teach him (and seriously hoping it will be the way she can travel in and out of shadows), Stiles closes his eyes and allows his mind and body to rest. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning: there is a very brief mention of a very small amount of vomit.</p>
<p>A/N: I just picked a year. I needed a prime number, it was relatively in the future when I thought certain things would happen... if it works, great, but if it doesn't... that sort of fits with the canon's messed up timeline. Just go with it :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>It was gone. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gone.</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles felt the panic bubble up in his chest and tried to scold himself for feeling like that—it was a car, for crying out loud, and it had never been his, anyway!—but he couldn't stop himself. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Even though the jeep had been Feliks' vehicle, it had been their mother's vehicle first. Stiles could remember going on adventures with her, looking for brownies and pixies off of well-used hiking paths, and the jeep had been their noble stead to trail openings; he remembered the laughter and love they'd shared, and how she'd made him feel like he was good and whole even if he couldn't stop talking or moving (because if he did he might just burst with all the feelings and thoughts coursing through him). Even when Feliks revealed he had her keys and when their father agreed Feliks could register the vehicle in his name, the jeep had never stopped being a warm memory of their mother. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The Beast had crushed it and Feliks couldn't afford the repairs—and neither could John. Stiles had held his tears in until he was alone, and he'd hoped to go back to the scene of the attack to see it and say his goodbyes… </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But, it wasn't there. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He went to the Sheriff's Department, and it wasn't there, either. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He didn't find it at either impound lot the deputies used. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It was gone. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles looked at his mother's headstone and sniffled. She wasn't in the jeep, but it had seemed like… it had been tangible proof that she'd existed. Losing that last piece of her felt like a betrayal to her memory; losing that last piece of her felt as if she were really dead. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After wiping his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, Stiles buried both of his hands in the grass around him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Mom, I'm so sorry. I wanted to take care of it for you—for Feliks, but for you, really," he mumbled. "I tried to keep it running… I </span>
  </em>
  <span>tried. </span>
  <em>
    <span>But, the big bad ran amok and it got smashed and no one's going to fix it. And now it's gone and I have no idea where it is. I would've… I don't know. It might've been nice to have a piece of it. Just to feel like you're close. To help me remember all the adventures we'd had." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The wind rustled the trees around him. He knew his mother wasn't really there with him, but he liked to think the wind was her way of whispering assurances and love into his ears the way she used to do when she was alive.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán and Magnus are sitting by his bed when he wakes up for a second time that day. With a smile, Caolán squeezes Stiles' hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Alec's with your dad getting coffee," he explains. "He sent the pack home shortly after you fell asleep." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nodded. "Good. Not wild about another round of that drama so soon," he mutters before rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "Now, can you guys fill me in on all the details?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What do you want to know?" Magnus asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are seemingly hundreds of questions in Stiles' head. Some of them are safe to ask; some of them will never be spoken because he can't risk giving voice to his secret feelings and insecurities. But, he'll start with the safe questions and figure out what happened while he was being interrogated. Once he receives that information, he might move onto the murkier topics. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As a first topic, Stiles focuses on how they learned he'd been missing and how they found him. Caolán tells him about Erica and Isaac stopping by to visit, on the pretense that they saw Stiles' vehicle at the grocery store and thought it would be safe to visit John; it wasn't until Caolán tried calling him two hours later, upon Magnus' and Alec's arrival, that he realised something was wrong. He'd called Feliks, who brought Jackson, and the magic users set off looking for Stiles with the werewolves watching John. As Magnus and Caolán share their bits and pieces of events, they paint a picture of events that had them gathering people slowly—first Jordan, who took them to Chris, and then to the pack; Lydia ran a grid search and they searched the county in teams. Caolán admits that Derek had some trouble keeping (some of) his puppies in line, but when his investigations coincided with Peter's investigations and Magnus' abilities, they found a property Deaton rents out in short-term increments; they hadn't realised Deaton had created some sort of cloaking barrier around a large chunk of territory until they crossed it and saw Stiles' animal guardians. From that point, it hadn't taken them long to rescue Stiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Huh… I wondered where they went," Stiles comments after processing their accounts of the search. "I thought… well, the nemeton showed me you guys near her, and I tried to send the animals along the key lines." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus shrugs. "I suspect the cloaking spell created some disturbances… in the force," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smiling, Stiles says, "Probably." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"One of the ley lines runs through the house, though," Caolán adds. "With the circles drawn, and the power line, it seems like Deaton was planning a ritual of some sort." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods, but his attention is on Magnus. His gaze has drifted to the far side of the room, his eyes unfocused as he thinks. He brings his free hand up to his face, pressing his index and middle fingers to his lips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's 2027," he muses, still staring at the wall. "The harvest moon is in a couple days." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán tilts his head, shares a long look with Stiles, and then looks at Magnus with his eyebrows raised. "Yes, but we all know that," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus gives himself a shake and shrugs his shoulders before he can settle. "It makes sense, right? I mean, some of us dismiss prime number power as anecdotal or fictional, because we have our own innate power, but some people believe. And if someone doesn't have a lot of power… maybe they rely on correspondences to build strength and help with focus. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And the harvest moon is a heavy significance for those who practice religious and ritual magic. He let that power build and build, wild and unfocused, but he doesn't know the nemeton is healing and becoming focused again, on her own. Or maybe that's part of it, to feed her chaos and pain and see if she can embrace it, I don't know. Then… he tries to have the one person who suspected him </span>
  <em>
    <span>of anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>wiped off the board, but in what looks like a ritual circle," he says, nodding his head towards Stiles as he finished speaking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles can't form words. Magnus' theory makes sense and the area's history suddenly appears to have a purpose—an awful, cruel purpose. Stiles can't breathe past the words stuck in his throat in a ball of rage and despair. All the lives ultimately sacrificed to the land so Deaton could gain more power?! He thinks of Derek and his family, the people killed in the war between Gerard and Deucalion, the destruction he unleashed while possessed, everyone the Dread Doctors ruined… and the return of Gerard and Kate and—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Deaton sat back and watched all of that happening, waiting for enough power to build so he could try to siphon off strength? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He wants the book from you," Stiles croaks. "A tiara from Margo… Morgana's focus stones." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus blinks. "Well, he probably wasn't looking to kill you </span>
  <em>
    <span>first,</span>
  </em>
  <span> then," he decides. "There's a power absorption spell in there. I've seen it. Now, how he knows about those items… that's curious. But, I suppose he could find them if he's aware they exist and if he knows someone extremely adept at scrying for protected objects. A magical thief, maybe. I can think of two off the top of my head."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So, he was going to take Stiles' innate power, and probably the power from the nemeton," Caolán says. "The power he cultivated by letting blood into the soil here, near a damaged convergence." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Magnus says, "You and the nemeton, a twofer. Wow, he is an ambitious little snake---"  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm going to kill him," Stiles growls, angry on behalf of himself, the nemeton, and the Hales. "Right now. Magnus, you get the car. Caolán, pants. I am going to strangle him with my bare hands. See how the snake likes that." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"In front of all the deputies?" Magnus asks. "Yes, that will go over well." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán snorts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Deflating, Stiles looks up at Magnus and wills him to understand. "He… the Hales… and us… and all the death…" Stiles manages to say. "He let all of that happen?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know. It's just an educated guess. Our Liam's still interrogating all of them, and Wilder and Mira are still investigating the house where we found you, so they'll get to the bottom of it," Magnus replies.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes Stiles a minute, but then he remembers that they have day jobs in state-level law enforcement (along with Jeff and Morgana). He deflates a bit more and sighs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mira told me one of them will need to question you, and they'll do that," Caolán says. "I suspect they'll send Liam, since he's… y'know, less close with you. That's why they're here—because some deputies are connected to the pack, including the Sheriff. He called their main office, by the way, asking for help, on the premise that the hunters were involved in more crimes and he's concerned about partiality with some of his deputies being friends with Deaton. Just lucky we got the best team for the whole situation. Mira and Wilder said they'll wait until you're back home with us before smothering you, too, just so you know." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Stiles snorts. "They did not." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán grins and replies, "No, Wilder actually said something about how you're still working things out and you need friends not mentors or investigators. Mira said she's going to get the lay of the land here first." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sounds like her." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Your dad's been staying with the pack, while you're in the hospital, when he's not here," Magnus continues. "Alpha Hale promised me he'll be safe. He was willing to do a blood pact, but Alec and Caolán prevented me from—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Leave Derek alone," Stiles interrupted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a loud, pouty huff, Magnus says, "Don't expect me to forgive him, ever, for his part in—ugh! That sorry excuse of a—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is actually brave and incredibly resilient, considering everything he's endured over the years," Stiles says, speaking over Magnus. "We might not see eye to eye, but it was his betas, more than anyone else, who shunned me. And I think… if that is Deaton's end game, I can't be his only victim. I'm not sure, but I have a feeling. Talia Hale was close with the nemeton. Anyway, he has been messed with enough, Magnus. You hear me?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So, you are gone on him," he says. He shrugs. "Well, I can understand that. The scruff and the shoulders. And the strength. But, the sad, clueless puppy look is a turnoff." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles is very, </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> glad no one in the room is a werewolf who can hear his heart beating or smell his emotional reactions. His teenage feelings had faded with time, and he has no idea what he feels for present-day Derek (apart from a lot of confusion), but he does still care about him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you want me to lift the mountain ash circle around the hospital?" Magnus asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You… put a mountain ash circle around the hospital?" Stiles echoes, blinking up at his friend. "Are you crazy? There could be wolfy doctors or nurses—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"There are," Caolán interrupts. "Alec talked to them. If I'm here, I break the circle when they need in or out. If I'm not, Miz McCall or the Argent hunter will do it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles frowned. "The pack must hate that." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't care!" Magnus explodes, seemingly out of nowhere, his eyes flashing yellow. "The way they talk about you—they have no idea who you are as a person or what you've done to protect them and others like them! And now that some of them know who you are, it's worse! They're talking about wanting to keep you here, like you're their possession! They don't deserve you!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reaching across the bed, Caolán puts his hand on Magnus' shoulder. "Not all of them," he murmurs. "Just a few of the betas. We have no idea what Alpha Hale thinks about all this, not really. And Cora—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't," Magnus cuts in, interrupting whatever he'd been about to say. "You like her. I can practically smell it on you and I don't have their senses." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán glares at Magnus, and Magnus glares back at him. Since he can't ever remember a time anyone has ever been mad at Caolán (and especially Magnus, because ever since Stiles showed up in Excelsior, they'd always seemed to be on the same metaphorical page despite their differences), Stiles is confused by their behaviour. He knows Cora is beautiful—the whole pack is, really—and he can see that she has features in common with Suze, but he'd left Excelsior thinking Caolán had found his match already. Infatuation is possible, he reasons as he watches his friends continue their glaring match, and Magnus will probably calm down when he realises Caolán's loyalties can't be so easily altered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mags… c'mon. Tell me more. Like… who took my hair and gave it to Deaton. Then we can all be mad," Stiles suggests.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That was Scott," Magnus admits. "Deaton allegedly offered to help him </span>
  <em>
    <span>help</span>
  </em>
  <span> you forgive him. Scott, in his infinite wisdom, snuck into your father's house after he and his girlfriend saw you at the grocery store. She had no idea. They'd split up at that point. I asked her when we found out. Caolán was with your father, because those two had come to visit him, and we weren't here yet—but I've been doing my own investigating." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Narrowing his eyes, Stiles asked, "Erica and Isaac?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes," Caolán replies. "I suspect that it was a distraction, in hindsight." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn't a surprise that Scott did Deaton's bidding. Deaton had been grooming him for a long time—since before Scott had been bitten by Peter, probably. It even makes sense that it's Erica and Isaac who assisted him, acting as a diversion in case Caolán could detect others in the house; they're particularly fond of Deaton, along with Boyd, and Isaac thinks highly of Scott. Their choice of actions does hurt, though. They'd known how Stiles felt about Deaton, in their shared past, and they should know how important consent is to </span>
  <em>
    <span>everyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>. His insides churn and he feels cold spit slipping into his mouth as he realises Scott, Erica, Isaac, and some of the others in the pack, probably, thought manipulating Stiles like that would be acceptable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán puts a clean bedpan under his face as he leans forward and heaves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he pukes up a small amount of bile, John and Alec hurry into the room. John's eyes are wide and his mouth is open; he calls for Stiles in a tight voice. Alec holds him back after exchanging a long look with Magnus, and they stay a few feet from the bed until Caolán disappears into the bathroom and Magnus puts a cup of water in his hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You told him?" Alec asks Magnus. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He deserves to know why I locked them out," Magnus replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John looks around at them all, including Caolán as he returns to the main room. "What happened?" John asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of responding to his father's question, Stiles looks at his friends. "Did Derek know?" he asks. "Did Derek approve of this plan?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No," Alec replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán shakes his head. "He found out about the spell when he started getting the pack to look for you," he explains. "Scott suggested going to Deaton and asking him to do a tracking spell, too, since he still had your hair at that point. Peter asked him to explain—because there is no reason anyone should have a piece of you. The Hales and Malia… they were angry on your behalf. Particularly Alpha Hale and Peter. They were well on their way to feral."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What happened?" John repeats. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Scott did something not good," Stiles says. "Erica and Isaac helped." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Magnus squawks in protest, Stiles glares at him—even though he agrees with what he assumes Magnus thinks on the subject. There's no point to damaging John's relationship with the pack; Derek and his remaining family seemed to understand the damage Scott had done and the damage Deaton could have done, and Stiles trusts Derek to deal with his pack because Derek once told him he understood how it could feel to have his control taken away. Things have changed between them, but Stiles doesn't think Derek's views on consent and free will have changed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John looks at Stiles, brows furrowed and mouth pressed so that he looks like he's doing some serious thinking, and then he nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fine. You don't want to talk about it now, that's okay," he says. "But, I want to know what they did to you when you're ready to talk about it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hoping he keeps the surprise off of his face, because John usually accepts Stiles' sidestepping of the truth as the actual or whole truth, Stiles nods, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The new (used) car had been gleaming in their driveway for five days; every time Stiles walked past it, he had to resist the urge to spit on it (or worse). </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It reminded him that their mother's jeep was no longer </span>
  </em>
  <span>anywhere, </span>
  <em>
    <span>which chafed against the memory of his mother's death and the fact that Feliks didn't seem to care that the last piece of proof Claudia (Gajos) Stilinski ever existed was gone. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>At the sound of his father's voice, he turned. John was still in his uniform, but his shirt was untucked; his shoulders were relaxed and the pinching was gone from the sides of his eyes. He smiled at Stiles as he jogged down the front step and crossed the yard. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Nice, huh?" John said once he was at Stiles' side. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Sure, if you like ten-year-old cars." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John snorted as he draped his arm around Stiles' shoulders. "Now, don't be like that," he murmured. "This is a milestone. Your brother saved up enough money to buy his first car. It's a big deal." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Even though he knew John didn't mean his words the way Stiles heard them, he still heard the digs. The jeep hadn't counted as Feliks' first car; the jeep hadn't counted at all. Feliks did a good thing—something on his already-successful path to manhood—and John was proud of him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah, well, I miss the jeep," Stiles muttered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You could have your own wheels, too, y'know, if you decided to save your money." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah, but I'd miss out on all those curly fries," Stiles lied.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John huffed and squeezed him close; he sighed the little sigh that told Stiles he was disappointed. Stiles was never going to measure up to Feliks in their father's eyes. He tried to love them equally; Stiles couldn't be as wonderful as Feliks, though, so he understood why John related better to Feliks than Stiles.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He could have told him the truth, and it might have helped, but he wasn't sure what the truth was going to be. Most of his allowance and most of his birthday and odd-job money had been going into a savings account for the last five years. At first, it was for video games and other sundry possessions. The deeper he waded into the supernatural, though, the more the money became a possible rescue or escape. When Peter left town for the last time (although it probably wouldn't be the last time, </span>
  </em>
  <span>ever,</span>
  <em>
    <span> because Peter had a habit of turning up when they least expected him to), he stopped by Stiles' window and gave him some friendly (investment) advice. It had been weird, but a lot of the help Peter had given him over the years was weird. Still, despite the weirdness of Peter and amid the chaos of Beacon Hills, Stiles had put some of that advice to work, and he finally had enough money to cover at least the first year of university or college. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He didn't want to abandon his family and friends; however, he wasn't sure it was safe for him to stay in Beacon Hills. He knew a lot of the pack was considering UC Davis, while the county's community college was an option for anyone who didn't have decent grades and who wanted to stay close; Lydia's only West Coast option was Stanford. Stiles had been considering Stanford until he'd been possessed; his grades had slipped and he was pretty sure he'd never earn the perfect scores required to even be considered. He had a few options left, but they were all outside California—and they were all the more appealing for being so far away. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe he'd find people on campus who could look him in the eye. Scott still couldn't bring himself to look at Stiles; his gaze made it as far as Stiles' nose before dropping again. He knew a lot of it was the nogitsune on top of Theo's lies; and, since Theo and his scheme had been revealed, Scott was having trouble looking at most of the pack. Some of the others would interact with Stiles—or they would try to, since Stiles was struggling under the weight of everything that had happened and couldn't make it easy for anyone, including himself, to move past recent events. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He hated the idea of leaving the pack; he also hated that he knew they'd survive without him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That he didn't know if he'd be able to survive </span>
  </em>
  <span>with </span>
  <em>
    <span>them was a sore spot he didn't like to poke at too much. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So. Back to all my questions," Stiles decides after a bit of small talk. "Why is Deaton in custody? I mean, I figured out it's him, because the ringleader's an idiot, but he never showed himself, so—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He was there," John says. "Not the whole time. But. His prints were found in the stolen truck and in the house—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's his—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The hunters caved pretty quickly," John finishes. "I don't know all the details. Jordan told me enough to know you're safe. The agents talked to Peter. They found a wire transfer from Deaton to that, ah, headhunter he knows. It was from around when Peter said he'd heard about a hit out on your alias. They found other transfers to the hunters. It's done. He hired them to—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John breaks off before he can say the words. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's okay, Dad," Stiles murmurs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's not," John says back, his voice a little croaky. "But, I appreciate you trying to give me a break." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How's Feliks?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a shrug, John says, "He's still trying to wrap his head around the involuntary reveal of your big secret. He's been… off." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Surprised he's not here telling me I can't be that good at my job because I got kidnapped and tortured," Stiles mutters on a humourless laugh. He really doesn't want to have that conversation; the idea of being trapped in a hospital bed where the pack could get to him (if they convince Caolán, Melissa, or Chris they have good intentions) doesn't not appeal to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before anyone can say anything else, Stiles sits up a bit. "Okay. Let's get out of here. Daddio, can you see if Melissa can help speed up the check-out process? If she's here? Twenty minutes, tops, is all I can—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles, you can't leave," John interrupts. "Your feet—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They're healing." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Your head—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No more messed up than usual," Stiles says. "I'm not staying here. This is the pack's territory and they deserve to work without being trapped by mountain ash. I can heal at home—or in Excelsior. Wherever. Just not here." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a frown, John shakes his head. "Stiles, you need to stay until the doctor clears you," he insists. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Then get one to clear me," Stiles insists. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We're not going to let the pack get to you here," Magnus says. "Stay. We'll loan you enough energy and do the things we can do to help your body along, but you've been through serious trauma and even I'm concerned about mundane complications from that beating you took. They won't get to you while you recover. It's safe here." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While he hates that Magnus can be a little too perceptive, he is relieved that Magnus seems so sure of himself. He knows some of the pack might be able to skirt past the ash, though. Scott might get permission to go see Melissa; Derek might have pack business with one of the others who works there. John could bring Feliks with him, too. He knows that there's a very good chance no one will visit him (and as much as that hurts, deep down in a hidden area of his heart, he hopes they will stay away)—but he also knows some of the pack might not be able to resist rubbing salt in his wounds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The mysterious and dangerous Jimmy Travers was captured and tortured until he was rescued. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That will be a hit to his reputation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Look, I know you're worried, Dad, and this was hardly a day at the beach, but I've been healing more quickly that I should be—thanks to these guys letting me leech some of their strength—and I'm not comfortable sitting here like a… well, like a sitting duck," Stiles explains. "I have no idea if the hunters told anyone who I am. And I'm really not looking forward to Feliks' commentary on my life's choices. I need to get out of here, pack up, punch Scott, and leave town." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán snorts. "Priorities in order, then," he teases. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John eases himself down into one of the chairs next to Stiles' bed. "Scott did something to hurt you because he trusted Deaton, then," he says. When Stiles nods, he asks, "When did you know for sure he can't be trusted?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I… I had a bad feeling… the year after Scott was bitten. I knew for sure in the middle of the alpha pack business," Stiles tells him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Bad spidey-sense feelings and… well. Rumours and stuff," he says, not getting into the nemeton's role in Stiles' magical education. "History. Argent confirmed a lot of it when I sneak-attacked him with my suspicions." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Shocked the truth out of him?" John asks, smiling a little. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a smirk curving his lips, Stiles nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And the others didn't believe it?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Stiles could say anything, Magnus snorts. "He'd done his job well. Cryptic language to hide the truth, never explicitly disloyal," he says. "And anything Stiles told the pack, they could turn around and tell their precious, so-called Druid, putting Stiles in danger." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I tried to tell them, but without specifics…" Stiles adds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John's face seems to crumple, eyes widening as some of Stiles' situation seems to dawn on him. Stiles hates that John is seeing his past for even a fraction of what it was; John is happy with Feliks and the pack and Stiles doesn't want to cast any of that happiness in a negative light. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You know, after you left… it didn't take long before some of them realised they'd counted on you," John says, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his knees. "I know I told you about how they expected you to come back at Christmas, then at the end of the second semester… how disappointed they were when you stayed away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They went through some changes. Derek tries," John continues to explain. "He started fixing the damage the first few years had done. Scott stopped mistrusting him at every single turn, he integrated those who turned up or got exposed to the supernatural… they became closer to a real pack, as far as I can tell." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus snorts again, and Stiles reaches out and squeezes John's arm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dad, I know you think you mean well, but this history lesson doesn't matter now—and I'm not sure it's entirely accurate, anyway, given what I've seen of them," Stiles says. "Fact of the matter is I was drowning and they couldn't or wouldn't see it. I was attacked, tortured, possessed… and then I was erased from this reality. And when I was so thick in it I couldn't catch a breath, they essentially told me they survived without me and would continue to do so. They told me I should go and I stayed gone. They got the good twin, so who cares about me, right? Just because they've realised I'm not actually useless doesn't mean they get me back as some sort of human pet." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The good twin?" John echoes. His eyes fill with tears. "Stiles, no… no. He's not… I love you both—have I made you feel like—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dad, hey, no, I get how easy it is to pick favourites," Stiles interjects, trying to dismiss the conversation with a bit of truth. "You had an all-star athlete who could hold his tongue and not fidget, and then you had a little weirdo shit disturber who never stopped moving or talking. I understand." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At Stiles' words, John surprises them all by bursting into tears. He covers his face in his hands as his shoulders shake. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles feels an ache bloom in his chest. He inches around, moving until he can put his hand on John's shoulder and squeeze. He doesn't want his father hurting; he has always tried to protect John from pain and seeing him like this hurts more than the reveal of any other secret or truth could hurt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John stands abruptly. He wraps up Stiles in a big hug, still crying, and Stiles hugs him back just as fiercely. His eyes water and he tucks his face into John's shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I love you just the same," John mumbles. "I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like I didn't—oh, hell, I screwed up so bad. I… I thought… the things you said… sibling rivalry or jokes. But, they weren't jokes, were they?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's okay, Dad. It's okay," Stiles murmurs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John shuddered. "It's not okay, Stiles," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Neither of them let go for what feels like hours. When they finally separate, Stiles realises Caolán, Magnus, and Alec left them alone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It took Stiles an embarrassingly long time to realise that the Hunt was coming for him. When he did—finally—piece it together, he raced across the school where he knew John was working a(nother) murder scene. He didn't have a lot of time before they caught up to him and he was erased from the world. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John caught him when he raced up to him, all </span>
  </em>
  <span>easy, son</span>
  <em>
    <span> and calm strength, and he didn't understand why Stiles was so upset. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Dad, Dad, you gotta </span>
  </em>
  <span>listen</span>
  <em>
    <span> to me!" Stiles exclaimed, pulling John away from the other deputies. "You have to remember me. You have two sons.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Twins.</span>
  <em>
    <span> You can't ever forget—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John raised a hand. "I know I have two sons, Stiles. I wouldn't forget that."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Please, Dad. You're the only one on my side… the only one who will remember me. Everyone else only sees a bargain-basement Feliks. I need you to remember, no matter what happens," Stiles insisted. "The Wild Hunt is going to take me, and I'll be gone, but I need you to remember me. Mischief. Me." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John's eyes softened. "Stiles… son, I could </span>
  </em>
  <span>never</span>
  <em>
    <span> forget you," he breathed. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You get with Lydia—she's the pack's brain now—and you remember me. Please."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John nodded and Stiles hugged him again. It was weird, because they weren't as close (because Stiles felt so isolated and it was a vicious circle of isolation), but Stiles didn't care. There was a chance John would remember him; it was far more likely he would forget Stiles ever existed. If he were lost forever, he wanted one good memory he could treasure if he survived wherever he'd be taken. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"Hey."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles looks up from his book when Cora enters the room. She's wearing scrubs and an identification badge; she looks like she's actually a nurse, and part of him is proud of her while the rest of him is uncertain with her being so close to him as he recovers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Surprised it took the pack this long," Stiles says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora drops her gaze, briefly, before looking at him again. "I'm not here for the pack," she says. "May I join you?"  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Discomfort and curiosity vie for dominance in Stiles' brain, but he still nods and gestures towards the empty chairs next to his bed. Cora nods in reply and takes a seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You need to consider coming back for good," she says. "You didn't see how Derek got when you left and stayed gone. The changes in the pack. The trouble. Don't tell me you can't see it. He'd feel better with you around, too, I know it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That isn't at all what Stiles expected her to say. He blinks at her, waiting for her to say more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes her a few minutes, but she does finally speak again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're a mate match, dumbass." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, again, Cora manages to surprise him. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mates?! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Does she really think that's going to work?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nice try," Stiles says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's a thing," she says. "We all have a handful of people that feel right—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know that, I'm not an idiot. What I meant is, 'nice try, but there is no way I am a possibility for Derek.'" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora clenches her hands around the armrests, but she relaxes enough to tilt her head and sigh softly. There's little hint of the angry, young werewolf Stiles remembers from their high school days; she seems to have grown and embraced the idea of control. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He didn't know how to tell you—or if he should tell you. Age difference, danger… he was trying to wait to see if the right time would happen. And it was rarely calm before you decided to leave town," she says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora frowns. "You did, though." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, but you all opened the door," Stiles reminds her. "You were there. You heard what my brother and the others said and you chimed in. Are you surprised I didn't stick around for that?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, Cora frowns. "No… I guess not… no," she concedes. "But, at the time, I thought Derek deserved a mate who would fight for him and you weren't." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That stings. Stiles had been processing trauma piled on top of trauma since Scott had been bitten; he'd been possessed, he'd nearly been killed more times than he could count (both accidentally and intentionally), he'd been accused of a murder he did not commit, and his family had survived him being erased from their reality. He couldn't have fought for a mate he didn't know he had the chance to have because he'd been in over his head and unable to find the horizon line. He'd been in so much pain he couldn't feel it anymore. He'd reacted the only way he knew how to—by escaping and hoping for a break so he could start to heal.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I couldn't have fought for him, even if I'd known," Stiles says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora sighs. "Stiles—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't want to tell her anything, not really, but he thinks she might </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> listen. As soon as he has that thought, the words are building up in his throat before he can look away from her. They spill out into the quiet of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was drowning, Cora. I had enough to deal with, with Feliks. Everyone loves him, he's so great, and I'm… not him. But, then Scott's bitten, and Peter's on a rampage… Kate's loose in town… Feliks gets bitten, too, upping his awesome quotient. And Gerard. Man. Do you know who convinced Erica and Boyd to go back to Derek? Me. Because Gerard had me in their basement, too, and he kicked the shit out of me when I wouldn't talk about the pack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And then the alpha pack. I'm not sorry we went through that, because you're here, with Derek, and, god, I wish he could have all of his family back with him. After that, and thanks to Deaton—and that </span>
  <em>
    <span>stings</span>
  </em>
  <span> that no one ever believed me about him—and Blake, I got possessed. I… I will never shake the feeling of having that spirit in my head. Scott couldn't look at me when that was over. I couldn't look at me. Feliks was mad I couldn't be normal. I was on the outside. Derek tried, but I knew if it came down to it he'd choose the pack over me. That's how it has to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Scott accused me of murder. Everyone believed him—again, except for Derek and Dad. Do you know what that's like? People you'd die for believing the worst of you?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And then… the Wild Hunt. No one remembered me. And I know, it's not your fault, that's the magic of it, but when I came back… I was a mess. No one wanted me here. And maybe Derek made it a little easier, but I know he has to stick by the pack. An alpha is nothing but an omega without a pack, right? So, I gave up my dad, my ridiculous brother and his ego, and my so-called friends, and I left. Because you and the other betas essentially told me I had nothing here anymore." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a deep breath and looks away from her. "How was I supposed to even breathe with all that weighing down on me?" he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You seem okay now," she says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, well, that's only because I got out. But I'm not okay. Not really," he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Could you be okay here?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you kidding me?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"When he sent Feliks and Liam to get me, they were perfectly fine with the idea of roughing me up and throwing me in the back of their car," Stiles interrupts. "Yes, Derek apologised, and, yes, Feliks eventually apologised, but he still sent them after me and they thought that behaviour was okay." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, Cora frowns. "He told them to treat you like pack," she admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well. You guys must have a lot of rough and tumble fun." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her frown melts a bit. "We do… sometimes. But, that wasn't supposed to happen. Derek knew he couldn't send Scott, but he thought… I mean, Feliks… he's your brother." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah. I didn't exactly make it easy for him, but I'm not… I'm not poor little useless Stiles anymore," he says. "I appreciate that Peter was able to help with my rescue, but… I'm not going to forget everything that happened and thank my lucky stars you guys are willing to give me the time of day again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Guess it doesn't help that you got attacked and hurt because we didn't see how Deaton was using us," she adds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. "No, but he was playing a very long game. You weren't supposed to see." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There's nothing I can say to change your mind?" she asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks away from her again, focusing on the book in his lap. Apologies would help, but he knows they won't apologise. There is a lot of pride on the line—theirs, as well as his. Even if they did apologise, they couldn't magically make him trust them again. Even if he is one of Derek's potential mate matches, Derek deserves someone who won't put him at odds with his pack. Derek deserves someone who can be in Beacon Hills with him and his pack; Stiles is capable and he could be a strong asset to the pack, but he can't give up his life and he knows the pack wouldn't be thrilled about him helping others. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know if apologies would help now—even if they understood why they're apologising—because I'll always wonder if it's just so you can all have Jimmy Travers," Stiles admits. "Besides, Derek deserves—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You didn't see him, that first break when you didn't come back," Cora interrupts. "When the Sheriff said you were staying at school… the others might not have noticed. But, I did. He was sad. He picked up the pieces but every break you didn't come home—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't tell me anymore," Stiles insists. "He'd hate you exposing him to me like this." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his eyes still on his book, with his vision becoming unexpectedly blurred, he senses Cora standing up next to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I… I thought Derek was wrong, because I believe a mate should fight back and prove themselves, even if they're human. I just didn't realise you were fighting for yourself already," she murmurs. "I will admit, at the time, I wanted you gone so Derek could move on and finally be happy, but… I know he was never really happy while you've been away. He was just… going through the motions and trying to be the alpha, despite everything." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She reaches out and touches his knee. He can feel her leeching some of his pain away through the thin blankets and he closes his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"For my part in this, I'm sorry," she continues. "I should have put the pack—which </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> included you—first. You've been supporting us, all this time, as Stiles and as Jimmy, and we've been too blind to see it." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like John's hug, Cora's words soothe some part of the open wound inside of him. He doesn't understand, because he didn't think an apology would help, but something about the way she spoke </span>
  <em>
    <span>helped. </span>
  </em>
  <span>On impulse, he reaches out and squeezes her hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll… um, thanks," Stiles whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She squeezes his hand in response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Am I interrupting?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles looks up and sees Caolán standing in the doorway, with two take-out milkshakes in his hands. When he notices the light flush on Caolán's cheeks, he remembers what Magnus said and he turns to look at Cora; she, too, is blushing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No… Cora was just… checking up on me," Stiles says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shoots a brief glare his way before looking at Caolán. "I was apologising for my part in hurting Stiles," she admits. "Please don't tell anyone I'm here." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Magnus is more concerned about people coming to pile on additional pain. I won't say anything," Caolán says. "Do you want to stay, or—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, my break is over in a few minutes. I should—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles squeezes her hand again. "Hey, you can come back if you want, okay?" he offers. "I'm not… I don't want… I don't want them all here at once. Ever. But, I'll tell Magnus you, Peter, and Derek can come on through, if that's—I mean, I'm not staying, but maybe we can try the friendly visit thing?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has a second to glimpse her watery smile before she hugs him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you," she whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She brushes her cheek against his. To anyone else, it's a simple gesture of affection. To Stiles, it's a not-so-subtle attempt at scent marking. He closes his eyes and tightens his hold on her shoulders. He misses that feeling, although it was only Derek who had ever done it in the past; other packs have tried to get close, after he helped them in some way, but he'd kept them at arm's length. It never seemed like a good idea to let another pack mark him. When Cora does it, it feels right, and he tries very hard not to examine that too closely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before she leaves the room, she smiles at Caolán. He blushes even more, ducking out of her way with a polite nod of his head; when he turns to look at Stiles, he raises his hands, and all the questions (and teasing comments) die on Stiles' tongue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There will be plenty of time to tease Caolán later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles…"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, boy," Stiles mutters, closing his book. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caolán chuckles. "Yeah, here we go, finally," he agrees. He moves into the room and takes the seat Cora vacated. After handing Stiles his milkshake, he says, "I've learned so much about you on this trip." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles sips his shake and savours the sweet strawberry flavour. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I knew you were hiding things—we all hide elements of our past—but when Mira spoke about the balance in your life…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After swallowing the creamy goodness, Stiles says, "You had no idea I'm such a complex and delicate flower, huh?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caolán frowns at him. "You're as delicate as you are strong," he insists. "I just wish you'd told me. I would have helped carry that burden. We all would have. Even Liam and Jeff, as prickly as they can be. You're our friend." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs at his words. He isn't sure what he should say, but he thinks an apology is prudent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he opens his mouth, Caolán shakes his head. "Don't apologise. I don't need it," he says. "I like to think you might have told me eventually—when you were ready." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I might have," Stiles agrees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caolán smiles. "Then, we're okay. We all have secrets or things we're not proud of—it isn't easy to live in the real world," he says. "We'll get through this, no problem. You'll see when you come back to Excelsior with us." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Caolán—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alec told me Margo put Clary and Eliot—surprisingly, because the man does no physical labour besides dancing—to work on your room at Magnus' condo," he explains. "They're giving you some space to make your own. You can stay and heal, use Excelsior as a home base until you've recovered from everything." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles frowns. "Stay?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We need a project—especially Eliot and Margo, because they've been bored lately." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And I'm it?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At Stiles' question, Caolán laughs. "Oh, buddy. You got taken by hunters. You nearly had your foot melted off. Do you think any of us are going to let you out of our sight for the next… forever?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles glares at him. When Caolán only laughs more, he wraps his mouth around his milkshake straw and sucks on the frothy beverage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Everyone was swirling around them, preparing for the train, but Stiles couldn't move. He thought he heard… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Was that Derek and Lydia? Were they shouting his name? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>In the chaos swirling around him, he caught a glimpse of another familiar face. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He couldn't be sure it was his father, but he needed to know for sure. Diving into the crowd was difficult and he took an elbow to the temple for his trouble, but he didn't care. He needed to know if John had been taken. So far, he'd only seen Peter; it had seemed like his family and pack had managed to escape unscathed. But—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At the sound of a gunshot being fired into the air, everyone screamed and ducked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Give the boy some room." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There was no mistaking that voice.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles had to blink a few times, while John stepped through the people, holstering his firearm. He was grinning, blinking back his own tears, as he strode towards Stiles. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Dad!" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He rushed to John, wrapping his arms around his father's reassuring shoulders, and felt a wash of warm and tender affection when John wrapped him up in his own embrace. He was found! His father found him! Nothing else mattered, because someone remembered him enough to find him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Oh, god," John breathed. "Oh, I found you… I can't believe I found you." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Dad," Stiles murmured. "You found me." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"We… we thought you were lost." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek's voice interrupts Stiles' thoughts, echoing in the space as if it were coming from the heavens. </span>
  </em>
  <span>"Stiles," </span>
  <em>
    <span>Derek shouts between long howls. "</span>
  </em>
  <span>Stiles!"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He turns his head away from John and looks around the station. "I… I think I can hear Derek. I thought I heard Lydia, but that's… that's definitely Derek," he said. "They can get us out of here. I think… I think they can get us out of here."   </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Go," John urged him, even though his hands hadn't yet released him. At the sound of a horse whinnying in the background, John released him and nudged him away. "You need to get out of here. Don't worry about me." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles blinked. "What? You're kidding, right?" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>John smiled and shook his head. "Go. Get help. Find your alpha. He's been looking for you for a long time."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Uh… but what about you?" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"We'll find each other again," John promised. He let his eyes drift over all of Stiles, as if he were committing Stiles to memory; Stiles didn't like that, as it made the danger of their situation so much more real. "Stiles… I'll hold them back." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Dad…" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Now, get the hell out of here," John insisted, gesturing towards the opposite side of the terminal. "Go!" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The riders were coming into their section of the terminal, and Derek's howls were becoming higher pitched and more desperate sounding. Stiles needed to run if he were going to get back home and help the pack save everyone. He hated the idea of leaving John behind, but he knew John was right; he needed to run towards Derek's howls and the promise of rescue. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking out over the pizza boxes and empty ginger beer bottles on their living room coffee table, Stiles pats his stomach as a sigh escapes his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Finally full?" John asks, smiling a little.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles grins at him. "Maybe. Magical recovery and emotional conversations need serious recharging," he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Caolán, Magnus, and Alec gone to the nemeton, at the tree's quiet and wordless insistence, Stiles and John had made the best of their time alone. John insisted on pizza and a game. Stiles requested the ginger beer when he saw a case of bottles in the pantry cupboard; he still didn't like getting drunk as it made him feel as if he were losing control. The only sports game they'd found on television had been cricket, but it was fine. They'd settled down on the sofa with their bounty and hadn't moved for a couple hours except to bring more food or drink to their mouths. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How long can you stay?" John asks. "Maybe we can do this again…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'd love to, Dad," Stiles says, letting his smile soften. Since they've started talking, about real issues, it feels easier to be with John. "Maybe we could go see the nemeton, too? I'm sure she knows who you are, but I'd like to introduce you two." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is that where the others went?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, Stiles says, "Yeah. We don't have one near Excelsior—I don't think, anyway—and they're curious about her. Caolán is nerdier than me, so—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know if that's possible." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles swats at John's shoulder. "Hey," he mumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smiles more. "How did you meet them all, anyway?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smiling back at John, Stiles says, "I… well. It was after one of our first meetups in San Francisco. I fully intended to take the whole week off. I wanted to talk to someone in Excelsior about getting some runes or a sigil tattooed on me—for focus, because I couldn't—and… I walked past this club. It was closed—not unusual for a Sunday morning—but there were people inside. I heard someone shout. It was Eliot. He was there to do some paperwork and a wendigo had gone hunting. Turns out the wendigo thought  magic user flesh is tastier than mundane flesh. I saved Eliot by trapping the wendigo in mountain ash—my only surefire trick at the time—and then I lugged Eliot back to his people. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He didn't want to go to a doctor. He said Magnus could help him better than anyone else, so… I went along with it. We showed up in their neighbourhood, and Margo, Magnus, and Alec got aaaaall puffed up, thinking I'd hurt Eliot. Once the truth came out, they invited me to stay a bit. Mira offered to teach me more. And, because there's a serious shortage of skilled emissaries, Magnus, Caolán, and Jeff have connections to a network that can give me enough work. Over time… we just… became friends. I'm not very close with Wilder, Liam, or Jeff, but they're not around every time I'm around. Because of their jobs." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, John turns to look at the television. A commercial for pain medication is playing, listing the side effects of the drug, but his eyes aren't particularly focused on the imagery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They seem to be very competent agents. I don't think they like the pack much. They work in a room lined with mountain ash and something else they did means the werewolf deputies can't hear them talking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Erica's been complaining and trying to get me to fix that, but after everything we've talked about so far, I'm not inclined to do her or the others any favours. Mira smiled at me the last time I refused. I suppose she approves." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles sighs. "They're overprotective. Mira especially. She's like my Yoda." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She's the only one who will talk to them," John supplies. "She's not very nice, a lot of the time, but she does talk to them. The others just glare when they ask questions." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wilder's strong and silent routine takes some getting used to," Stiles tells him. "He's got stronger game than Boyd in that area." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John snorts. "No kidding. Anyway, they're only really decent to Parrish, but… he's hard to hate. Even Agent Butterfield seems all right with him." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since Stiles assumes Mira is trying to figure out if the pack is a part of what is causing Stiles' alleged lack of balance, he understands why she hasn't yet decided to completely ignore them. She's probably on the cusp of deciding if they're worthy of a second chance, before Stiles can come to her and ask her opinion—because, no matter how sure he is about staying away from Beacon Hills, he has doubts (and regrets), and he has been wondering if it's even possible to try to reconcile his past with his present. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liam's attitude towards Jordan is a result of Jordan's actions during the investigation. When Liam had arrived at Stiles' hospital room to question him about his abduction, with Jordan as his escort, Feliks had been there. He was sitting at Stiles' bedside, trying to ask Stiles about his work, now that he knows about it, and Stiles had been either ignoring him or providing vague and/or snarky responses. When Jordan saw Feliks trying to wheedle information out of Stiles, he'd paged a nurse to have Feliks escorted out of the room. Liam has made it very clear that the pack is on his shit list—which surprises Stiles, since he and Liam aren't that close—and the pack is holding a grudge against him in return. His one exception is Jordan, who seems to have proven that he has a different perspective or has quickly adjusted his perspective on the situation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They're good people to have in your corner when you're in trouble," Stiles murmurs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm glad you have them, son," John replies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Stiles can say anything else, words about having John, too, on the tip of his tongue, the doorbell rings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John raises his hands. "No idea. It might Feliks," he says. "But, Feliks would use his key." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe it's Mira," Stiles decides as he pushes himself up and heads through the room to the foyer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks Mira would call or text first, but it won't surprise him if she just appears to have a chat; she'd been keeping her distance, letting Liam interact with Stiles, as their case's victim.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Opening the door reveals Scott, standing on the step. His hands are in his pockets and his shoulders are raised a little; he looks tense, and he's vibrating in a way that seems nervous, too. He sees Stiles and his eyes widen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mom said you're out of the hospital." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles nods. "It's been a couple days now," he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah… I… I wanted to let you heal a bit more first," Scott tells him. "I… can we talk?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles isn't sure there's anything Scott can say, after everything that happened between them, but he figures, if their friendship meant anything to him, ever, he should at least listen to what Scott wants to say. He doubts it will fix anything; he doubts Scott even understands what he did to him, by trusting Deaton and stealing Stiles' hair. Still, they were brothers at one point, before werewolves because a part of their lives, and Stiles can give him a chance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott moves as if to enter the house and Stiles doesn't move aside. That seems to put Scott off-balance, but he nods as if he understands he isn't invited inside the Stilinski home (at least while Stiles is there, anyway). Stiles waits; he isn't feeling charitable enough to make it easy on Scott. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So… you're, like, magic," Scott says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So, Feliks decided to spill the beans," Stiles replies. "How long did he wait to tell you? An hour?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's a secret?" Scott asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why do you think the hunters shot my dad?" Stiles asks in response. "What do you think others will do when they all know about me? The alias and secret are to protect Beacon Hills." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He didn't tell me it's a secret!" Scott protests. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Narrowing his eyes, he studies Scott. Then, he says, "Who did you tell?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I, uh, I only… I only talked to Argent," Scott tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone has at least one tell. Scott appears to have forgotten how well Stiles knew him and how observant Stiles can be, because he doesn't bother to hide the little lick to the corners of his mouth. Scott is lying; it's only been a few minutes, but Stiles feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>done</span>
  </em>
  <span> with their conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So, you thought outing me to a hunter would be okay," Stiles comments. Scott opens his mouth but Stiles raises his hands. "He already knew before he joined up with the cavalry, but that doesn't change the fact that you think you have the right to play fast and loose with my life. Or Dad's. Or Feliks'. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And, if the other person or people you told put me or my family in danger, I will come for you, Scott McCall. I can hide my scent. I can be silent. I will come for you and I will take your voice—or worse—so you can never tell anyone anything ever again. So, you think about who you told about me, and you better hope they never tell anyone else for as long as they live. If someone else comes here and puts my family in the crosshairs to get to me? I will come for you. Remember that." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott's eyes turn wide and round and he frowns at Stiles. "We're supposed to be family, too." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Didn't stop you from taking my hair so Deaton could make me do something against my will," Stiles says. He shifts his weight and leans against the doorframe. "You actually thought it would be okay for Deaton to use magic to try to make me do something against my wishes. Does consent or free will mean anything to you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't say it like that," Scott mutters. "It's not like that." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No? And a guy using a date rape drug on a girl is just so they can make sweet, sweet consensual love, is it?" Stiles challenges him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, Scott winces. "That's not what I want—that's not what I meant to do." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You just wanted me to do something for you, not for me, and you didn't want to give me a choice," Stiles explains. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stiles—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, you don't get to argue this," Stiles interrupts him. "I'm the wronged party here. You tried to magically roofie me. You knew how I felt about Deaton, even if you never believed me, and you still betrayed me by turning to him. Again. And I know you had Erica and Isaac come by to distract Caolán while you snooped through my belongings, so… I'm not all that happy with them, either." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I… I was trying to fix—I thought it would be best, when you first came back," Scott says. "You weren't </span>
  <em>
    <span>with</span>
  </em>
  <span> us, like before. Seeing you here… it's so weird that you're not hanging out with us. I still think of you like we're sandbox friends." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We're not little kids anymore," Stiles says, almost idly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And I don't know you anymore. Maybe I haven't… ever? I don't know," Scott rambles. "And I just thought maybe magic can fix us. Deaton made protection charms before. I thought maybe he could make a friendship charm. Help smooth the way for fixing things." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles wants to laugh. He wants to slam the door in Scott's face. Instead, he says, "Magic isn't duct tape or superglue, Scott. There's no easy fix. There are consequences, though, just like with everything else." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches as Scott's expression takes on a distant, thoughtful look. When Magnus drives their rental vehicle and parked in front of the house, all contemplation seems to be over as Scott scowls. He glares at the magic users as they get out of the vehicle and cross the lawn. His glare has nothing on Magnus' stare, though; Stiles can practically feel the force of his feelings as he looks at Scott, and it seems like Scott can feel it, too, because he looks away after a few minutes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How was it?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Illuminating," Caolán replies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alec snorts. "Literally," he adds, which makes Caolán chuckle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mira, Wilder, and Liam are going to stop by later," Caolán adds.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Perfect. I'll bake cookies," Stiles says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They file past him, each one touching his arm or shoulder as they walk into the house and greet John. Scott watches their interactions, mouth open a little bit, as if he can't quite control his surprise; Stiles watches him, waiting for some sort of response or reaction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You'll never forgive me, then?" Scott asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. "If you genuinely realise and understand how you hurt me… if you actually grow up, maybe," he concedes. "I'm certainly not going to say I forgive you just so you feel better. This, on top of everything else… it's just too much." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott nods. "Okay," he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay," Stiles confirms, before moving back into the house and closing the door behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stays in the foyer, listening to his friends and his father talking. After a few minutes, he reaches out with his powers; he's still weak, but he has enough energy to sense Scott is still standing on the step, attempting to listen to the conversation happening inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Idiot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Lifting the lid on one of the containers of mountain ash, Stiles extends his other hand and uses it to guide the grains outside through the living room window and around the house. He keeps the line closer to Scott than to the house, so it brushes against Scott's sneakers, and he smirks as he closes the line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott yelps and, as far as Stiles can tell, lands in nearby bushes when the circle is closed. It's a little bit satisfying and he smirks as he rejoins his family, of both found and blood varieties. He'll take the barrier down later, just in case one of the Hales decides to stop by for a visit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Easy, Stiles, you're okay." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The last thing he remembered was a dream where the riders of the Wild Hunt forced him into a train car before John and Derek and Lydia could get to him. He'd been screaming and banging on the glass; they'd started off upset and just as desperate as him, but the riders touched them and those passionate feelings faded away until they stood there, watching with mildly interested faces, as Stiles was carried away on the train. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Der—" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I was patrolling town and heard you," Derek interrupted, his voice still a whisper. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles sat up in bed and rubbed his hands over his face. "Thanks, creeperwolf," he whispered. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He responded by putting his hand on Stiles' shoulder and squeezing. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I was back in the train station. You were there with Dad and Lydia. You tried to get me off the train, but the tree faced dudes did something," Stiles admitted, his voice still a whisper. "I… I was… you were all just watching me get taken away." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>After a long, slow exhale, Derek eased onto the bed next to Stiles. He didn't start talking until he'd taken another two deep breaths. "I used to dream about Kate setting me on fire. After I came back, I would dream about her coming back and trapping all of you in the house and burning you up—still do sometimes. Then, there were dreams about Peter killing y—ah, people in the pack, before ripping out my heart with his bare hands. Jennifer keeping me in a cage. Deucalion biting you and you rejecting the bite." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Dude…" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"What I'm trying to say is… it's how our brains process trauma," Derek continued talking. "Doesn't make it okay or enjoyable, but it's a sign we're trying to make sense of what happened." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nodding, Stiles wiped his eyes with one hand. "It was… I was trapped there. And I had no way of knowing if anyone would ever remember me," he whispered. "Feliks looks like me. They didn't have to do much magic to erase me, because he could—" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek squeezed his shoulder again when Stiles stopped talking. "I knew. I didn't know what I knew, not right away, but I knew someone was missing. I felt it," he said. "We went swimming at the lake, and I had this memory of Feliks holding me up, but I knew it wasn't Feliks. I didn't understand. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I kept buying curly fries and milkshakes and I didn't know why, because I'm not wild about junk food," he continued. "I kept pushing, trying to figure it out. And when I remembered your scent… it all came flooding back. I wouldn't have stopped until that happened." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Without turning to look at Derek, Stiles leaned into him and rested his head on Derek's shoulder. "Thank you for not stopping," he whispered. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Next time you go missing, I won't stop then, either," Derek promised. "But, I really hope there isn't a next time." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At that, Stiles snorts. "Me, too, big guy. I think I've maxed out on supernatural abductions." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Good." </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>(I'm pretty sure I'm going to spend these last four chapters just braced for hate. Please don't be too mean.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Cora and Peter made a point of visiting when Magnus, Caolán, Alec, and John were with Stiles, and Stiles appreciates that—even if he suspects they both had ulterior (but different) reasons for visiting when Stiles' friends are at the house. It spoke of respecting boundaries and conditions; it suggested they might be trying to prove to Stiles and his friends that they're serious about making some sort of amends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia must have deliberately waited until everyone—even John—had left Stiles alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Either that, or her timing has gotten even better over the last few years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as Stiles opens the door and contemplates greeting her, she raises her hands and says, "Scott should never have come without speaking to me first." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles isn't sure his conversation with Lydia is going to go much better, but he decides to try to keep the hostility to a minimum until he hears what she intends to say to him. Instead of keeping her on the front step, he moves away from the doorway and gestures a silent invitation to her to step inside. She follows him into the living room and sits down on the couch; Stiles joins her, keeping one cushion of space between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"In the interest of full disclosure, Feliks told me, too," she says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not a surprise. He could never keep his big mouth shut unless it benefited him," Stiles mutters. He eyes her. "Are you going to say anything to anyone else?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course not. That would put you, Feliks, and your dad in danger. And probably me, too, because I'm almost always with Feliks," she replies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And I gave Scott a piece of my mind for what he did with your hair," she adds. "Consent is… you don't fuck with consent." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles nods. "Thanks." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't thank me for that. That's just being a decent human being," she says after a sniff and a swish of her own hair. "I think Derek will punish him on your behalf. For a very long time. Late night patrols, probably." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't want—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Derek was hurt by Scott's actions, too," she interrupts. "It's not all about you. I mean, it's mostly about you. But. This is important to a lot of us." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods again. He isn't sure what he should say to her. He's glad some of the pack, at least, seems to understand why Scott's actions are a problem; he's saved from trying to have to explain that to everyone. But, he doesn't know why Lydia is starting with these facts and issues. He doesn't know why she's there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, then. I have some suggestions, but I'd like to hear your thoughts on the matter," she says. "How do you think we can fix this? What will it take for you to come home?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cutting straight to the issue as she sees it irritates him. He feels tension coiling in his gut and he lashes out at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So the pack can have Jimmy Travers as their emissary? Lydia Martin deserves the best, huh?" Stiles snarks. "It's flattering to finally be on your radar even if it's way too late. Guess there's something Feliks can't give you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As his jab hits its mark, Lydia's lip curls into a small snarl. "It isn't just about me. It's about you and the whole pack, too. We want you to come home." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After rolling his eyes, Stiles says, "Right. Even if that's true, you are delusional if you think I want anything from you or your precious pack. You made a decision—even if you think you only made that effing schedule—and I had to respect it. I think you should learn to respect my decision." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're Derek's—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What I might have felt for him or what I might still feel for him, it doesn't matter, Lydia," Stiles interjects. "I can't trust you or his betas. Besides, I'm not willing to give up my life for anyone, no matter who they are." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She frowns. "Stiles—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You can't make me want to stay," he says, cutting her off again. "No one had my back then. I can't trust you now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels a </span>
  <em>
    <span>whoosh</span>
  </em>
  <span> of magical energy but he doesn't react; it feels like Magnus' energy, and that will always be welcome where Stiles is. Instead, he keeps his focus on Lydia. His magical senses, expanded with a little push of his power, tell him his friends and father are back in the house. He feels better, with witnesses who can overhear their conversation; witnesses mean the conversation becomes less </span>
  <em>
    <span>he said, she said</span>
  </em>
  <span> and remind Stiles that he isn't alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caolán, Alec, and Magnus won't abandon him. John is learning how bad things were for Stiles in Beacon Hills and he seems genuinely determined to repair their relationship; Stiles is holding onto a few reservations, because he knows how close John and Feliks are, but he sees John trying and he is interested in seeing how their relationship changes and (hopefully) grows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia's frown turns into a small smirk, as she recovers from Stiles' refusal to return. He braces himself for her next strike—which he knows will be a direct hit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Your family is our family. We're pack," she reminds him. She plucks at the gold bracelet on her slender wrist, and he recognises it as the one that Claudia used to wear. He almost misses her next words because he's staring at it, but he snaps to attention in enough time to hear her say, "You're making it harder for them. What if Derek declares you an enemy of the pack?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sharp pain in his heart is expected, as soon as he registers what she said, and he steels himself against rubbing his hand against his chest to soothe the emotional wound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wow. Derek gonna forbid Dad from talking to me? Dick move." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He won't," John says from the doorway. Lydia gasps and turns to look at him. Stiles hides his smirk behind her; it is very satisfying to see her caught off-guard. "Lydia, Derek and I have already had this conversation—then and now. It is not an issue, because while I may be with the pack in terms of protecting the area and in helping to maintain the treaty with Argent, I am not and have not ever been </span>
  <em>
    <span>officially</span>
  </em>
  <span> part of the pack. Stop trying to manipulate my son. He's done nothing to deserve that—and you know better."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of sticking around and arguing her case, Lydia huffs loudly, flounces off the sofa, and marches out of the house. When the door slams, Stiles looks at John and tries to smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Your future daughter-in-law's got spunk," he comments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John frowns. "I don't know if I want them to work it out, or not," he admits. "She's been great for Feliks, especially when they were at school, but… if she thinks she can treat you like that…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I may have provoked her," Stiles admitted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After tilting his head, John said, "Doesn't matter. I just don't know what to think about them anymore. Recent events have been revealing a lot about people—Lydia, Scott, Liam… Erica, Isaac. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Me.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Hell, kid, I never thought…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm so sorry, Dad," he says. "If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have been shot, and all this—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, hey," John interrupts. "None of that. I don't get let off the hook. We need to have all these conversations. And I'm proud of you, you know. Caolán and the other two have been telling me what they know of your work… and I'm just so proud of you. Terrified. But, proud." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes water before he can try to hold onto his emotions. "Thanks, Dad," he whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crossing the room, John drops down on the sofa next to Stiles. "They should be proud of you, too. You save people like them. The approach they've taken… now that I… I didn't want to see it, maybe. But, I do now. They're not acting the way I expect them to." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Cora was okay," Stiles says. "She actually apologised. I think she even meant it." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good," John says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles frowns. "Dad… everyone says you're pack. One of them. How—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smiles a little, but he seems sad around the edges of his expression. "About a week before you left, Argent approached Derek and I and requested a formal treaty. He'd approached Derek first, apparently, and Derek refused. So, he rethought his plan and asked for me to be a part of it. As a balance. As the Sheriff," he explains. "After you left, we formalised the agreement. It started as regular meetings, touching base, passing messages, and all that jazz. When it started to look like you weren't coming back, Derek started bringing me lunch and inviting me over for dinner meals. Said he snuck into the diner and broke their police scanner." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that revelation, Stiles doesn't know whether he should laugh or cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"People started coming back from school, getting jobs… and the dinners became a regular thing. Feliks and Malia, oddly, decided this meant I joined the pack. Derek and I discussed it. It was never going to be official, with you away," John continues. "But you and Feliks are both so involved in the supernatural side of things, I can't stay on the outside and play messenger and mediator. Instead of explaining it, we rolled with it. I care about them, even if I'm disappointed in them now. I was supposed to be someone else the kids can go to if they're in trouble—although, I'm pretty sure I didn't help much, judging by recent events. I'm sorry—again—for my part in that additional pain. I should have told you instead of letting you assume it was a done deal."  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles shakes his head. "A lot of things and people haven't been helping. We're not alone. In that or in making assumptions, I'm realising." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, John adjusts his position on the sofa. "What did Lydia say before I got here?" he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Feliks told her my secret, too," Stiles says. He rolls his eyes. "I need you to impress upon him how much more danger he could bring to you and the pack if he keeps flapping his gums. He clearly doesn't take Magnus' threat seriously."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John snorts and puts his arm around Stiles' shoulders. "It's probably safe to say the pack's inner circle knows about you now," he says. "I know it's not what you want, and I'm worried for you, but some of them do need to know things to keep the pack safe." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I wish I could say I trust them, but I don't. I can't trust Feliks or Scott. How the hell am I supposed to trust the rest of them? Liam?!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe you need to take a leap of faith," John advises. "We're all going through some heavy revelations. Maybe they'll surprise you. And, if not, we'll deal with that—together. I promise." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles nods because he doesn't know what else to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Guess it's serious and you approve enough if you gave Feliks Mom's bracelet to give to her?" Stiles asks, after a long pause in which he scrambled for a new topic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John frowns. "I didn't. I'm pretty sure that was something Claudia gave him." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles frowns, too, but he remains silent. He thinks back on all of his memories with Claudia; he thought she loved him, and he thought she treated him equally to the way she treated Feliks. But, Feliks had her jeep and that piece of jewelry, and Stiles doesn't remember their mother ever giving him any of her treasures. It's possible Feliks schemed his way to those things, but he remembers that she always wore that bracelet, and Stiles had been the one at the hospital when she died, so he doesn't know when Feliks would have taken it for himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stiles?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's nothing," Stiles says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his arm, John squeezes his shoulders. "Don't lie to me, please. Not after everything. Tell me you don't want to talk about it—but </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span> don't lie." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's just… he had the jeep until he wrecked it," Stiles says. "I don't even know how he got the keys. And then he has Mom's jewelry. Why didn't I ever get to keep anything of hers? I must have tried. Did you notice and take the things from me? Or did she give them all to him? Does everyone just like him more?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After opening his mouth and staring at Stiles, clearly at a loss of words, John gives himself a slight shake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"God, no, she… she </span>
  <em>
    <span>loved</span>
  </em>
  <span> you both so much. So much, Stiles. And she knew you were different people. She used to say we had so much love and magic between us, we needed to have two babies at once to contain it all. I just didn't realise she meant real magic," John says, tears filling his eyes as his lips curve into a genuine smile. "She would go play soccer with Feliks and then turn around and take you on an adventure, looking for fairies or pixies or those little goblins from the David Bowie movie, remember?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She always said spending time with each of you meant she got to do everything—because you rarely ever wanted to do the same thing. She knew you weren't the same and she loved you for it. She spent her life as a mother doing everything in twos and she </span>
  <em>
    <span>lived</span>
  </em>
  <span> for it. She even wrote two good-bye letters on one of her last lucid days. One for each of you—just like always." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles blinks. "What?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stiles?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What letter?" he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John frowns. "She wrote you a letter. Both of you. Maybe that's where Feliks got the jewelry?" he suggests. "Didn't you get your letter? Did either of you? I'm sure I put them both in your bedroom, the night she died…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles leans forward, out of John's embrace. "No, Dad… I never got her letter," he mumbled, rubbing his hands over his face before he turns and looks at his father. "I was at the hospital with her, waiting for you, that night. If the letter was at home… look, I didn't even know it existed." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rubbing Stiles' back, John says, "I'll look for them. Feliks never said anything, either. That night… it was a disconnected blur. Maybe I tucked them both away in a drawer and they ended up in the boxes of her things." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though he's beginning to suspect Feliks is responsible for his missing letter, Stiles smiles and nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Those portal things are trippy," John adds. Stiles lets his smile stretch into a grin; those portals </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> trippy. "Is that how you get around?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nah, I usually drive so I can bring my gear with me," Stiles tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head and resumes rubbing Stiles' back with a gentle touch. "Well, if you ever learn how to do that, I wouldn't say 'no' if you wanted to send one my way," he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That isn't how the portals work, but Stiles keeps grinning as he nods. Truthfully, he doesn't know how Magnus does it; it's like folding time and space, but creating a pathway instead of actually folding time and space, and Stiles finds the whole idea of them confusing. Magnus has always been more powerful and creative than Stiles could ever be. It doesn't bother Stiles. He'll either get to that level or he won't; his life's work will continue no matter what his abilities grow to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They rarely had pack nights, where everyone was invited. Stiles knew that Feliks, Scott, and Isaac sometimes spent the night together; he knew Boyd spent a lot of nights with Derek, especially when Cora, Malia, and Lydia were bonding over movies, snacks, and some sort of cosmetic frivolity that Lydia would foist upon the others. Sometimes, Stiles was invited to join them, but most of the time, he drifted. No one really invited him; he sometimes ended up where a group was, and he sometimes stayed when someone offered, but he was beginning to believe that he didn't really have a place with them anymore—if ever. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His East Coast acceptance letters were looking more and more appealing. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That night, Derek had invited everyone to the loft, to celebrate everyone getting at least one acceptance letter. There were hunters after them, and Gerard (for fuck's sake, would he ever just die?!) pulling all the strings, but Derek wanted to take a night and focus on the positives instead of the negatives. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles watched them all interacting. Cora had gotten into two different nursing schools and she was tucked between Malia and Erica; her eyes were a little dazed and Stiles could see there had been tears on her cheeks at some point that evening. He was proud of her for getting through high school and doing so with high enough grades, after everything in her past, so that she could go to UC Davis with Scott, Erica, and Boyd. Isaac and Malia were going to community college, despite Derek's and Peter's collective insistence that they had the money to make university happen. Isaac had refused because he had a plan to improve his grades; Malia declined because she had absolutely no idea what she wanted to do with her life. Lydia and Feliks were going to Stanford, because Feliks' scholarship offers had finally arrived and that was the one school he had in common with anyone. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles… had no idea where he would choose to go. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At the touch of Derek's hand to Stiles' arm, he turned and looked up at him. "Hey, big guy, what's up?" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Just… c'm'ere," he said. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He gestured towards the fire escape. Stiles nodded and followed Derek as he walked towards the door. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Once outside, Stiles took in a deep breath. Derek seemed to have a location in mind; he climbed the metal stairs until they were at the top, and he made sure to help Stiles as he tried to climb from the stairs to the roof's surface. Stiles looked out over Beacon Hills as he settled and he rubbed his hands over his arms—the gesture was one part self-soothing, and one part warmth-generating. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"All right, you got me here, now what?" Stiles asked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You never said anything about your school choices… and I… well, I thought maybe something bad happened, or—" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shaking his head, Stiles smiled. "Nah… it's just… kind of private. Until I've decided what I'm going to do." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek nodded and sat down on an overturned bucket. He kicked another out of the shadows for Stiles; he perched on the edge of it and looked at Derek. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Can you tell me? Would… would it help?" Derek asked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles shrugged. "It's not… well. I have a few choices to make. But it… feels complicated," he said, not sure how to address the issue with the alpha of the people who Stiles blamed for making the decision both easier and harder. "Grades dropped too low during the possession aftermath for Stanford to offer a scholarship. I still got in… but I'm not Feliks, so there's no athletic money waiting for me. Same with Berkeley. I never applied to UC Davis. And there's nothing at the local college that—" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Do you need money?" Derek asked. "I've offered the pack—that includes you—" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Money's not an issue," Stiles interrupted. He dropped his gaze and looked down at his wrecked sneakers. "University of Pennsylvania wants me enough that my first couple of years, at least, will be covered. They have a great folklore department." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>After a moment of silence, Derek said, "I thought you want to go into law enforcement." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I thought so, too, but… I don't think it's going to be my thing," Stiles explained. "Maybe I wanted to do it for the wrong reasons. I… there are better ways to help people, I think." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"By studying folklore and mythology?" Derek asked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"For starters, yeah," Stiles replied, nodding his head. "Thinking of taking a language, too. What do you think?" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He wasn't disillusioned about his place in the pack; the betas tolerated him, but they didn't really respect him. After the Wild Hunt, they started acting even weirder towards him. He definitely wasn't a part of the inner circle. Part of him wanted to go away and study and prove to them that he could be more helpful than Lydia, in terms of research, but the rest of him wanted to go away and study and prove to </span>
  </em>
  <span>himself</span>
  <em>
    <span> that he could help those who needed help and protection (and maybe find a place where he could be valuable). </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"That would be… it could be good for you. You like puzzles and putting together information to get the full picture of a situation," Derek said. "You'll learn a lot of skills you can apply to a lot of different job types, too." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah?" Stiles asked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek smiled a bit. "That's something about humanities. They teach you about specific ideas or subjects, obviously, but you learn research and writing skills that can help you in a lot of jobs," he said. He shrugged. "That's what Mom always said, anyway. It's why I went back to school after Laura and I… y'know." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Got settled," Stiles supplied. His gaze softened when Derek nodded. To distract Derek from the memory of his family, he asked, "Did you tell Cora?" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I tried. She's got it in her head that nursing would be helpful—for the pack," Derek replied. "I want her to do something for her. But… her mind's made up. I hope she doesn't hate it." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"She doesn't strike me like the kind of person to do something she hates—at least, not without letting you know every day," Stiles commented. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At his words, Derek's small smile returned. "You're probably right." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Where did you go?" Stiles asked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Columbia," Derek replied. "Where else did you get in?" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Columbia," Stiles told him. "And NYU. And Amherst College. No one else was as generous as Pennsylvania, though, so they're the front-runner." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A long, low whistle escaped Derek's mouth. "You did good, Stiles," he murmured. "I'm proud of you." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He hadn't even shown his father yet—because he knew John would tell Feliks, and Feliks would tell the pack, and he wanted the acceptance letters to be </span>
  </em>
  <span>his</span>
  <em>
    <span> for a little bit longer—so there'd been no one to congratulate him on his hard work. Derek's words made his insides feel as warm as his flushed face; he smiled and bowed his head. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Really," Derek said. He put his hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Congratulations, Stiles." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You're not mad?" Stiles asked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Do I sound mad?" Derek asked. When Stiles shook his head, he squeezed Stiles' shoulder. "Those are great schools and they'd be lucky to have you. The pack… we'll only be a phone call away. There are breaks and holidays. We'll work it out." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm not… banned?" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek snorted. "No, of course not. Pack isn't a prison sentence. You are free to study wherever you want. If you want to come back, I'll always welcome you back," he explained. "It's not… it's not… you don't have to break up with us. You don't stop being family with your dad and brother if you go away. You don't stop being pack—if you want?—either." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>While Stiles wanted to point out that he wasn't sure how much a part of the pack he really was, he didn't want to ruin the moment they were having. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Thanks, Derek," he whispered. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek replied by rubbing his hand against Stiles' neck and collar in a blatant show of scent-marking. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The mood was too tender for Stiles' heart. He needed to change the subject, so he asked what Derek studied while at Columbia. Derek told him that he'd taken English, focusing on literature but always wishing he'd taken more creative writing seminars, and Stiles tried not to picture a younger Derek Hale bent over a notebook as he scribbled out a short story. When he tried to ask Derek if he still wrote, Derek quickly changed the subject to the Stiles' academic plans and where he could see an education in folklore taking him. Stiles didn't mind; Derek seemed interested in his ideas, and he had a few ideas of his own, too. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you have to go so soon?" John asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. His father is mostly healed—his range of motion is nearly back to where it's supposed to be, and he's able to drive and work at his desk—and Stiles is mostly healed. The hunters have been taken into custody by federal agents, for the mass murders of the ringleader's sister and her pack, as well as a few others along the way to the packlands; Deaton is being moved to the county jail, soon, awaiting trial. The pack seems to have recovered from the shock of losing their so-called emissary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plus, Magnus is starting to interact with the inhabitants of Beacon Hills—and causing good-natured mayhem wherever he goes. It's time to go and get back to his life before Magnus decides to buy Jungle or refurbish the local dive bar into a much wilder nightclub. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Dad, I've been here for, like, a month," he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smiles and shrugs. "Feels like it's only been a few days," he admits. "I'm not ready to let you out of my sight yet. Not after… everything." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles doesn't say that it has felt like a year for him, in some ways. Instead, he puts his duffel bag in the back of his jeep and walks away from Caolán, Magnus, and Alec so he can hug his father. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm so glad you're okay," he murmurs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Returning the embrace, John says, "And I'm so glad you're okay. Next visit, how about we both try to stay out of trouble?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles laughs at that. "Yeah, okay," he agrees. He closes his eyes and tucks his face into his father's shoulder. "Think about retiring, would you? Please? My ticker can't handle the stress of you getting hurt again." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John rubbed Stiles' back as they parted. "I have been thinking about it," he says. "Especially lately. I know getting shot wasn't about my job, but… it put some things into perspective. Some things need to change—not just with work." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know you love your job, but I love hearing you say that." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a soft huff of laughter, John pulled Stiles in against his side. "Yeah, I figured you'd say that. I don't know what will have to change, with work, but—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Promise me we'll talk about it, before you make any decisions?" Stiles interjects. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows John won't accept money from him, but Stiles at least wants to try to make the offer. He works a very niche job; he is paid well for his speciality, when he takes paying jobs, and his own living expenses have always been low. With his lifestyle, he can afford to help John retire a bit more comfortably. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods. "Yeah… yeah. Been thinking about converting the basement into a rental unit, maybe… if you'd come and help me—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Consider it done," Stiles interrupts. "You, me… maybe Feliks for the slave labour." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sounds good," John agrees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe I'll put some noise dampening sigils in the ceiling down there," Stiles offers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arching an eyebrow, John asks, "I thought you're supposed to use your powers for good?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's no good if I can't get a full night's sleep and there have been some loud and obnoxious neighbours over the years…" As Stiles trails off, he grimaces. John laughs and pats his shoulder. "People can be assholes." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that pronouncement, John laughs again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, yes, me included," Stiles mutters, prolonging John's amusement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Speaking of assholes," John says. "Are you expecting Feliks to show up? Or are you hoping to slink out of town without talking to him?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That had been the debate that kept Stiles awake most of the previous night. If he leaves without seeing Feliks, he will be spared hearing what happened to his letter from Claudia. If he leaves without seeing Feliks, they probably won't fight—but, Stiles knows he'll probably never speak to Feliks again. He knows he will seethe until he's choking from the hurt and anger. The most sensible and reasonable option is to approach Feliks and ask him what happened after Claudia died. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Depending on what Feliks tells him, though, Stiles knows there's a decent chance of stony radio silence happening if he does approach Feliks and ask what happened to his letter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, getting tortured kept me from having to go to the lacrosse match, so I should probably stop by and see him," Stiles admits. "Is he—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He's at the pack house," John interrupts, his voice a little more gentle than usual. "You want company?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's what he has us for," Alec says as he crosses the yard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good… good. Maybe tell me how it goes so I know I've got the whole story?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles nods. He isn't sure that he'll tell John what Feliks says about the letter, but he'll tell John if the encounter with the pack goes poorly or well. John appears to be trying; Stiles knows he needs to try, too.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alec shakes his hand, thanking John for his hospitality, and Caolán and Magnus follow his lead. John, in response, thanks each one of them for supporting Stiles, and he welcomes them all to stop by and visit if they're ever in the neighbourhood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they all turn to the vehicle, opening its passenger doors and climbing inside, Stiles looks at his father. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm going to be in San Francisco for a while. They won't let me disappear anytime soon, and I need to re-ink some of my tattoos. Might as well take a small vacation," he says. "I'm not… I don't want </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the pack there. Ever? Yet? I don't know. But, you could come and visit. See where I hang out when I'm between jobs? Meet the others?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smiles. "I'd like that." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Please don't get shot again," Stiles says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I will do my best to avoid all the bullets," John assures him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Text me when you've arrived?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles nods again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John gently nudges him towards his vehicle. "Go on. Can't put it off forever," he advises. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His encouragement doesn't immediately make everything better—or calm the squirming worms in his stomach—but it does help a bit. Stiles smiles at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Love you," he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he steals one more hug, John says, "I love you, too." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles heads off to his jeep with the heaviness in his heart feeling a little bit lighter. They're not completely fixed, but staying together while they recovered did help repair a few of the misunderstandings they both had regarding their family. For the first time in a very long time, Stiles feels like he might actually fit (emotionally) with his father. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a start. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I flubbed Cora's birthday. I didn't realise the official calendar or whatever it is has it listed as July. For my purposes, her birthday is some time in June. Let's just pretend.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>It had been such a rare occurrence (lately) for a werewolf to climb into the house through their bedroom window, that Stiles hadn't immediately recognised the sounds. There had been knocking on the door, but he'd ignored it. Feliks and John were out for the night, with his girlfriend and at work, respectively, and Stiles wanted some quiet time after all the danger. With Monroe and the evil Argents dispatched, either on the run or dead, the pack had started planning for the future again; Stiles was frequently alone, left to his own devices, and </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>he had enough in his head to push out the realisation that werewolves cared little for his privacy. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Dude! Why didn't you answer the door?" Scott asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles set aside the novelty of Scott climbing through the window (because it was usually Derek or Peter—or Feliks when he needed to sneak </span>
  </em>
  <span>back</span>
  <em>
    <span> into the house) and turned his head to look at Scott. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Didn't hear it," he lied. "Was reading." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Studying?" Scott asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles shrugged. In truth, he was looking at his acceptance letters—again. He wanted to go to the University of Pennsylvania; Derek had assured him he should do what will be best, for himself, but Stiles couldn't shake the idea that he'd be abandoning the people he cared about. Even if the pack, collectively, didn't treat him as one of them, he still didn't want to leave if he could stay and be of some help in protecting the territory. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Cool. Just a couple finals left, right?" Scott asked as he sat down on Feliks' bed. "Can't wait until they're all over." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Summer vacation is calling, huh?" Stiles replied. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott grinned. "Something like that, yeah," he said. "We should go on a road trip." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Since Scott hadn't even wanted to play video games together over the internet in months, Stiles felt his suspicious nature rise to the occasion. He eyed Scott, who was still grinning, and he couldn't see any deception. Stiles didn't understand, because they'd barely talked in the last year; after Theo pushed Scott to attack Derek, declaring Stiles a murderer in the process; their relationship had been limited to interactions when Scott sought Feliks and Stiles happened to be near his twin and the occasional pack gathering. The idea of a road trip could give them a chance to reconnect, as friends, but he fully expected there to be an ulterior motive. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Really?" Stiles asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After a quick nod that sent his hair flopping, Scott said, "Yeah, definitely! You, me, Isaac, and Malia." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles frowned. "Why?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott seemed to deflate—as if he were disappointed Stiles didn't immediately jump on the idea and pronounce it the best idea ever in the history of ideas. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Uh… well, Chris said he heard Monroe's recruiting in other places, and a lot of werewolves are gonna get hurt," Scott explained. "I want to go rescue them. Bring them back here. Feliks and Lydia can't take a year off—it's Stanford, y'know? But, we can!" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Setting aside Stiles' hurt feelings over Scott being able to dismiss his university plans (without even bothering to check what those plans were), he chose to focus on Scott's desire to split up the pack even more—and increase its numbers, too. He couldn't believe Derek approved of the scheme. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What did Derek say?" he asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott grimaced and rolled his eyes at almost the same time. "He doesn't get it," Scott complained. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"He thinks it's a bad idea, first, to postpone your education, and, second, to split the pack up even more," Stiles guessed. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Throwing his hands up in the air, Scott said, "You, too?! Why is saving people a bad thing?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"It's not, Scott. But, you'll be off with Malia—who doesn't always have the best control—and Isaac—who isn't the strongest fighter," Stiles replied. "And, the whole pack is going to be divided, already. If you three get into trouble, Derek might not be able to drop everything and come to the rescue—because he might be dealing with something here, or in Palo Alto or Davis. And even if he is, he might be too late by the time he gets to wherever you are. You get that that's dangerous, right?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Shoulders raising and tightening in defence, Scott frowned. "You sound like Derek," he muttered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"And, he has enough on his plate to worry about taking new bites or traumatised wolves," Stiles added. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"He took care of us!" Scott protested. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and you are a sweet peach, man. Don't you think he deserves a break from selfish, ungrateful baby betas?" he asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What's that supposed to mean?" Scott muttered, his jaw jutted out enough to give him a mulish impression. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Really? We're gonna go there?" Stiles asked. "Man, you fight Derek every step of the way. Erica and Boyd actually left. Isaac drops him like a hot potato whenever it suits him—mostly to trail after you. Feliks only listens to him because Dad made him—and he still disobeys Derek almost as much as you do. And, you tried to kill—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Okay, okay, I get it!" Scott interrupted, standing up and starting to pace around the bedroom. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Do you?" Stiles asked. "Did you even ever apologise?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott's silence said more than his words ever could. He wished he could be surprised by Scott's actions—or lack of actions.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"So you're not going to come with us, then," Scott eventually said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles sighed. "I can't, Scott. I don't think it's Derek's responsibility to take care of every werewolf in the country—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"But, he let Monroe run!" Scott insisted. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"—and I can't defer my scholarship. It's one of the terms of the agreement," he said, continuing to talk over Scott's protest. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"So… don't take the scholarship. Come with us," he said as he stopped pacing to stare at Stiles.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles tilted his head as he looked at Scott. "You want me to—at best—put my future on hold, so I can get killed protecting wolves that aren't a part of the pack," he said. "Yes, let me start packing. Right now." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Derek would let us go if you come with us," Scott explained. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Don't manipulate either of us like that," Stiles snapped, swallowing his disappointment and choosing to focus on his frustration. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I can't just let people—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Knowing how Scott saw the world, black and white, and how he liked to help people he thought were good and deserving of help, Stiles quickly interrupted. "I know, Scott. And I think it's a good thing to help people," he said. "But, there are a lot of other ways you could help, without putting your pack in unnecessary danger." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"How?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Did you think of maybe trying to contact other packs? Starting a sort of network?" Stiles asked. "Derek could help with that. He, Peter, and Cora probably know a few packs, each, considering they're born wolves and they've travelled more than you. They could start putting the word out. Maybe there's a sign or signal people could put in their doors or windows if they're a safe house.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Or, maybe we're not the only pack with a connection to a semi-decent hunter who can put the word out that Monroe was affiliated with Kate and Gerard. That might not stop the psychopaths from helping her, but it might stop the hunters who actually try to stick to a code.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"And the network could be helpful, later. Not everyone is going to want to be friends, but even just knowing there are allies out in the world… that could help everyone." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After a sigh, Scott said, "That's part of why Jackson's going back to London for the summer." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Good!" Stiles exclaimed. "You already have a British connection… and he might have a few over here, too." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott frowned. "How do I get Derek to help?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Ask him," Stiles replied. "Acknowledge that his concerns are valid, and ask him if this could be an alternative." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He groaned and sat back down on Feliks' bed. "That… he won't listen to me," Scott protested. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I think, if you approach him in a reasonable way, he'll listen in a reasonable way." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott frowned. "You think?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles shrugged. "Has fighting him on almost every decision worked well for you?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After another groan, Scott said, "Yeah, okay. You might have a point."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles watched Scott as he thought about the situation—or as he thought about what Stiles assumed was the situation. Truthfully, it had been years since Stiles could accurately predict what Scott was thinking. There was a period, after being bitten, where Stiles could still figure out Scott and could still consider him a friend, but so much had happened and they were vibrating on different wavelengths as a result. He wasn't sure if they'd ever be able to reclaim that lost connection. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Stiles parks his jeep in front of the pack house, he lets out a long, low breath. The place is beautiful. It's a decent-sized house—not a monstrous estate, but not a cabin, either—and it has a farm-house feel with its wrap-around porch. He spies an outdoor fireplace near an open section of the porch, and there is seating out in the garden as well on every visible part of the porch. Next to the house, there is a large barn or garage; beyond the house and through the trees, Stiles can see the tiny homes Derek had mentioned. The house was designed to be the hub, and the pack can be a part of it in several ways. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"New?" Caolán asks from the front passenger seat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"New to me," Stiles replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seemingly between one blink and the next, a few of the pack are standing on the porch. Stiles only recognises Cora and Ethan; the other three are strangers to Stiles. They hold themselves stiffly, while Cora and Ethan lean against the railing and acknowledge Stiles with a wave and a nod, respectively. When Malia joins them, she gestures in a similar way and adds a submissive (but brief) tilt of her head.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles tries not to think about how weird it is to see Cora and Ethan standing together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You guys stay in the—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nope," Caolán says. "We want to thank the Hales, too." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a sigh, Stiles nods and opens his car door. Nearly the whole pack is standing on the porch by the time he stumbles out onto the gravel driveway. Derek is standing in front of the group, with Boyd and Peter behind him. Scott is nowhere to be seen, but Feliks is standing near Lydia, who took a spot next to Cora. Liam comes to the doorway with Isaac and Erica, none of them stepping closer to the gathering; Jackson slips past them and sits on the porch steps, ending up a few feet beyond Boyd and Peter.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stares at them all and tries to remember what he wants to say to them—and to his brother. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Alpha Hale, we'd like to thank you for letting us into your territory," Caolán says, when it becomes clear that Stiles' brain has stalled. "We appreciate your family's assistance in the matter of our friend's abduction… and we'd like to consider the Hales an ally." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I would value that connection," Derek replies in a formal rhythm and tone. "Especially since we are at fault for not ensuring our territory is safe—and for not heeding Stiles' warnings from the beginning." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He bows his head, more in Stiles' direction, and it feels vaguely apologetic. Stiles hasn't seen Derek since his stay in the hospital, and he wishes they could have some privacy to </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> talk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles goes back to the jeep and opens the door. In the centre console, he finds his (or Jimmy Travers') business cards and he takes one from the small stash. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Alpha Hale—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Derek," he asserts, interrupting Stiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smiles a bit. "Derek, I… oh, here," he says, stepping forward and offering the card to him. "If you need help. Or, if you want to talk. About anything." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek's eyes widen. "Stiles… are you sure?" he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is a lot he could—or should—say, but he already feels the stress of his impending talk with Feliks, and having so much of the pack watching him isn't helping. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You are not the enemy," Stiles says. "And, there seems to be some… miscommunication. Maybe we can work on that—you and me. Just you and me, I mean."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he nods, there seems to be a small trace of a smile on Derek's lips. "I'd like that. My number hasn't changed if you want to do the same," he says. He pockets the card. "I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> sorry, Stiles." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Me, too," Stiles admits. He points at Derek's pocket. "Seriously. If you're in trouble—call. I promise to do my best not to need rescuing next time there's a big bad." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek's smile becomes slightly more visible. "Good. I didn't enjoy that this time," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He extends his hand, offering a friendly gesture; Stiles takes it and leans in to put his other arm around Derek's shoulders. After a moment of hesitation, Derek returns the half-embrace. Stiles isn't sure if he's the best mate match for Derek, but he can feel his well-worn and often-buried feelings blooming in his chest as he and Derek linger a little too long to be considered polite. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they finally separate, Stiles shares a smile with him and ignores the way Magnus clears his throat; he turns his attention from Derek to Feliks. Derek seems to understand that they're done and he gestures for Feliks to step forward as he moves back towards his pack. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do I get a hug, too?" Feliks asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without the distraction of Derek, Stiles looks into Feliks' eyes and feels his anger and grief increase in amplitude. Feliks has been lying to him for years—ever since Claudia died—and Stiles doesn't know how to hug his brother and act like nothing happened. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles concentrates on the strength runes along the right side of his ribs until he feels the power swirl up inside of him. Keeping his eyes on Feliks' eyes, he imagines that power going down along his right arm before settling in his right hand. He shifts his weight and, as soon as Feliks is within striking distance, he twists and punches Feliks in the face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A few of the werewolves hiss and wince. A few of the werewolves growl. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus actually cheers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What </span>
  <em>
    <span>the fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> was that for?" Feliks asks, cradling the left side of his face. "Getting Dad shot?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That was my fault, not yours," Stiles replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Then, what—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's for whatever you did with Mom's letter for me," Stiles interjects. "I just found out that was a thing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fascinating. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dad thinks it might be in the boxes in the attic. Where do you think it is, Feliks?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thought Feliks might lie—either to say he has no idea of what Stiles is talking, or to deny that he had anything to do with Stiles' letter—but, instead, Feliks' posture slumps. His body language and facial expression both seem to crumple, and that's enough for Stiles. The letter is gone, as is any trinket that might have been contained inside of its envelope. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"All right, then," Stiles mutters. He runs a hand through his hair. "See ya, then. Good luck with the team next season—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he can turn away, Derek says, "Feliks, tell Stiles what he needs to know. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now."</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks groans and runs a hand through his hair—in exactly the same way as Stiles had done.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles waits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A few minutes pass. Feliks opens his mouth, makes a sound that might be a word, and then closes his mouth again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shifts his weight, as if to turn and leave, and Feliks lets out a loud sound of anguish. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay, okay, I took it, ripped it up, and buried it—in the backyard. Dad put the letters on our pillows the night Mom died, but you were still in the shower, and I saw yours and… and got curious, after I read what Mom said to me," he admits. "She gave you the jeep keys and a pendant thing and told you she knew you were going to go on adventures and do amazing things. All she told me is—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he stops mid-sentence and very abruptly, Stiles frowns. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What did she tell you, Feliks?" he asks in a soft voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"She… she said she wished she could be there to help me. Because I have a lot left to learn," Feliks mumbles. "Other stuff, too, but that was the big point. Life's more than soccer and lacrosse and good grades… I should spend more time trying to be good instead of trying to look good." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The revelations just keep coming," Stiles whispers, as he rubs a hand over his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I was a sad, scared kid, Stiles. Mom died! And Dad… he was… y'know. I didn't want you to leave me, too! I felt guilty, but I was scared you'd leave and I needed you to stay. And… and, the more time that passed, the more I knew I couldn't tell you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles hates that he sympathises with Feliks' plight. He hates that they're in front of the pack. The need for diplomacy wars with his brother-shaped issues, and he doesn't know what he should do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes a few minutes, but eventually, he steps forward and hugs Feliks. As if expecting another blow, Feliks flinches at first; he doesn't relax until Stiles squeezes with his arms and then he returns the embrace. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles turns his head and whispers, "So, you were okay taking from me, over and over, because your wants and needs come first. Every single time." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stiles…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dude, you need serious therapy. Really. And, you should tell Dad before he starts tearing up the boxes in the attic," Stiles says as he releases Feliks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feliks nods, but Stiles doubts that he'll say anything to John—or look into counseling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles moves away from Feliks before Feliks can return to the pack. He looks at Derek and doesn't know what to say; he feels like making an excuse or apologising, but he won't apologise for standing up for himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A blur of movement catches his attention. Derek and someone else—Jackson, he thinks—roar. Before he can process what his brain is seeing, he drops, grabs the short knife hidden at his waist, and slashes out. He catches on something and twists away from his attacker. He sees short blond hair and tense shoulders before he sees the claws and golden eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Liam.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That's enough," Stiles growls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He holds the knife in both hands and raises it above his head as he calls on his power. Liam wants a showdown; he is going to get a showdown. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He isn't even close to being the first werewolf who thinks he can overpower Stiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In a practiced move, he throws the blade down into the dirt—along with a sizable amount of power. Liam is already running; the power and its subsequent ripple knock him back and send him flying into a tree. It cracks with a loud sound that would have made Stiles wince in any other situation. He's stunned, and Stiles rushes forward to press his advantage. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His tattoos (and his concentration) feed and focus strength and speed into the parts of him that need extra power. When he gets to Liam, he spares a minute to look down at him. He's healing; he can take a little more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Behind him, Derek calls out for Stiles; Magnus and Caolán tell him to wait. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam tries—and fails—to stand. Before he can regain his footing, Stiles grabs his arm, twists it behind Liam's back, and he pushes Liam into the tree. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you yield?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam replies by trying to buck Stiles away from him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fine," Stiles sighs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn't easy to wrestle a werewolf to the ground, even when using magic to bolster his abilities, but Stiles manages the task. He knocks Liam down to his knees. Liam growls and struggles, but he can't wrestle out of Stiles' too-tight grip and resume standing. It doesn't take much more to get him lying in the grass. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of pinning him physically, Stiles whispers a brief incantation; his hands follow a practiced gesture, coming together in front of his face before he separates them and holds his palms to the ground and to Liam and lowers them. Liam struggles but he can't move; Stiles' spell is holding him in place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you yield?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam growls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Look, asshole, you're new at this, so listen up," Stiles barks. "All you did is survive. You've got claws and teeth and a super smeller now. So what?! The bite doesn't make you </span>
  <em>
    <span>special.</span>
  </em>
  <span> These people seem to tolerate your presence and you're going to get them all killed if you continue to think you're above learning how to be a person. If your ego and rage end up being responsible for hunters coming and hurting any of these people, I am going to come for you. There's nowhere you can hide." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still snarling, Liam says, "You're just like the hunters, then." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh, no, I'm probably worse," Stiles replies. "I won't kill you—that's too easy. I will make you pay for the damage you cause." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter cackles behind him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Truthfully, Stiles doesn't think he is worse than hunters—but he can understand why some people might think so. He doesn't torture (except for one time, very briefly and via magic, and there was a missing kid on the line). He doesn't kill (unless absolutely necessary). He uses his skills to protect and defend; there is a certain amount of unavoidable bloodshed, but he does see himself as more of an investigator and mediator than anything else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His reputation precedes him, though. Or, the reputation he built as The Traveller precedes Jimmy Travers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hopes the pack is able to keep his secret contained after this show. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When no one comes to his defence, Liam seems to realise something of the situation's seriousness. His eyes stop glowing. The extra hair of his shift recedes. Then, his teeth and nails shrink, becoming more mundane. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you yield?" Stiles repeats. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles relaxes his hands and arms; he pulls back his energy and releases Liam from the ground. Standing his ground, Stiles waits to see what Liam's first move will be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Jackson, Boyd, take Liam inside and stay with him until I can be there," Derek says from behind him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Boyd approaches, Stiles isn't sure what to do or say. They hadn't had any substantial interaction during Stiles' visit, problematic or otherwise. Before he can react to Boyd's proximity, Boyd brings a hand to his chest and bows his head. It feels like the start of an apology or, at least, some acknowledgement. Stiles nods back in response. As Jackson approaches, bringing up the rear, he flashes Stiles a small smile—and a discrete pair of incredibly dorky finger guns. Stiles nods again and breathes out a little laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They haul Liam up onto his feet and escort him away. Once he's alone, Stiles turns around and tucks the blade into its holder; he'll clean it later, when he's in Excelsior. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the porch, Ethan hands a grinning Cora what looks like paper money. Peter is wearing his usual smirk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek approaches him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You okay?" he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On impulse, Stiles raises his hand and whispers a quick incantation. It's not common practice to isolate an alpha from the pack, in his job, but they aren't in a common situation and he wants to talk without an audience. Derek doesn't startle; he doesn't flinch. He allows Stiles to bring a nearly-invisible barrier, like a bubble, around them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They can't hear or smell us," Stiles explains. After Derek nods, he adds, "You never came to see me… after." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I didn't think you'd want to see me after I screwed up so bad." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles frowned. "What's going on with you?" he asked. "What's going on with the pack?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He expects Derek to act defensive. He expects an argument. Instead, Derek's shoulders slump and he bows his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Derek?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know I'm not doing a good job," Derek mumbles. "I try, but… it's not working. I didn't even know it was so bad for you. I didn't know anything. And there's so much I need to tell you, explain—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As soon as Stiles' hands touch his shoulders, he stops talking. Stiles squeezes a little. He feels a little out of his element; the last time he'd helped an alpha with their pack, it had been a much more violent experience. Derek looks like he's a few minutes from breaking apart and Stiles doesn't know how to keep that from happening. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Derek, you don't need to tell me anything right now," Stiles says. "But, you do need to pull yourself together. You need to make a plan—for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> first, and your pack, second." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you talking as Jimmy or as Stiles?" Derek asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We're the same person," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek nods and lifts his head. "What would you tell me if I were a stranger?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Same thing I'll tell you when you're not," he says. "This has gone on long enough. You need help getting perspective on your situation. You need to make some decisions after you get that perspective. Can't you feel the trouble on the pack bonds?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Derek averts his eyes, Stiles feels some evidence click into place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You don't use the pack bonds," Stiles whispers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not… no," Derek admits. "We used to. Before—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"With your family," Stiles supplies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Feeling them break… it was excruciating. I don't want to feel that again, and I don't want anyone else to feel that," Derek explains. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles squeezes his hands into Derek's shoulders again. "Derek… they need it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> need it," he says. "If you don't want some of them as pack, tied to you in that more emotionally preternatural intimate way, that's something you can definitely decide because you're allowed to set boundaries. You aren't responsible for every werewolf in the county. You can be more exclusive. But, you have to let at least some of your pack in. At least the people you know support you through thick and thin. Look at how…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Bad?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I was going to say disconnected and disrespectful," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah," Derek agrees in a quiet voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You have kept them all together, all this time," Stiles continues talking as he pulls his hands away and gestures with them. "Which, yeah, is huge, but you gotta get your act together, man. I know you can do it. Jackson told me about the challenge—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek sighs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey, no, it sounded like you were trying, Derek," Stiles says quickly. "You need to keep trying." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks beyond Derek, to the people standing near and on the porch. Cora and Peter have moved; they're standing together near Jackson, their bodies touching slightly in solidarity and staring at Stiles and Derek with something akin to hope on their faces. Malia is smiling from her place on the porch—as is Ethan. When Stiles sees Erica watching him and meets her eyes, she flinches as if he struck her; she turns and heads back into the house. Her moving reveals Isaac, who is staring down at the ground with his brows furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin frown. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lydia and Feliks are no longer on the porch. Stiles doesn't know where they went; after Liam, he lost track of his brother and it seems Lydia went with him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The three strangers are gone, too. Stiles decides not to spare them any additional thought. If they're not standing with Derek, they're not worth consideration. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he turns back to Derek, he sees that Derek has been following his gaze. He's talking before Stiles can ask a question. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They came for the full-shift Hale alpha," Derek mutters. "I don't… well, it's helpful, because the betas are all working, so they can add to the border patrol schedule. They don't have control issues." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Ugh. Status seekers," Stiles agrees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's seen that enough in his travels. Usually, it's bloodthirsty omegas flocking to a new alpha challenge winner in the hopes that they'll be able to join a pack </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> continue hunting people. Stiles can easily understand that some werewolves would flock to Beacon Hills to be close to a werewolf who can shift into a wolf. It's a rare quality; Stiles has only encountered a handful of wolves who can manage that, and they're all in the same pack on the other side of the country. News of Derek </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hale</span>
  </em>
  <span> achieving that, much like Talia had, would inspire some to flock to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Maybe," Derek concedes. "They haven't been here that long. They came just before Liam was bitten." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sighs and runs his hands through his hair. "Derek, take some time, run as a wolf, have Peter use Talia's claws, go to a therapist… you need to do some of these things for you before you do anything else for the pack and Beacon Hills," he advises. "You need to stay alive, though, so promise me you'll keep people you </span>
  <em>
    <span>really trust</span>
  </em>
  <span> close to you. Jordan, Jackson, Cora, Boyd, Ethan, Malia."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek blinks. "How did you know?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Jackson came to see me, told me about the challenge and what happened in it. And while you would keep Malia here just because she's family, she's smiling, so I think she's happy we're talking," Stiles replies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And you just… know?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smiling a little and shrugging, Stiles says, "Some of it is I know you people enough, some of it is intuition. And some of it is what I see today."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Derek frowns and bows his head, Stiles asks, "When did you stop trusting your instincts?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek lifts his head, jerking as if he'd been stung, and Stiles raises his hands as if he's trying to calm a spooked animal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're still all Hale-y and handsome, and I can see you're trying, but… you're way off your game. Promise me you're going to get better. The sharks might be circling, and I really don't want to come back because you're dead and someone like Liam or Scott is the alpha," Stiles says. "Promise me, Derek." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek's posture softens again and he nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I need the words." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I promise. The next time you come to Beacon Hills, it won't be because Liam or Scott killed me and took control of the pack," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Stiles grins. He leaps forward and hugs Derek—because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs</span>
  </em>
  <span> a hug, Stiles can just feel it—and his heart pounds harder when Derek hugs him back in response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And call me if you need help. Even if it's just sounding board help. I swear I can shut up long enough to listen," Stiles murmurs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Against his shoulder, Derek nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They separate after a long moment. Staring at each other, neither of them seem willing to look away; it's not a passion-full moment, but it is still significant, somehow. Stiles thinks he's finally getting through to Derek. He hopes Derek is able to take his advice to heart and make positive changes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek gestures towards him. "You, ah, you look good," he says. "Better." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Borrowing energy from Caolán, Magnus, and Alec helped," Stiles explains. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They're good people?" Derek asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Letting his eyes drift to his friends, Stiles smiles. "Yeah. They… they give me the support I need," he says. "I mean, I'm on my own a lot for work, but I know they're always there." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"If you come back… or if we work up to phone calls,  maybe you can tell me about them sometime?" Derek asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sounds good," Stiles agrees, nodding. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek nods, too. After a moment, he says, "There </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> things I need to tell you. Things that happened after you left. You… it's… you need to know." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Since Stiles is pretty sure Derek is preparing to drop the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>mate</span>
  </em>
  <span> into their conversation, he shakes his head. "Not right now, okay?" Stiles asks. "Maybe once we're… closer to being on the same page. Let's start small." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Texts?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sounds good," Stiles says. He raises his hands. "I'm gonna take the bubble down. Any final words?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm really glad you're okay. And I'm sorry. Again." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smiles. "You get better and be more aware of what's going on in your territory to make it up to me," he stipulates. "I wasn't kidding when I said I make people pay."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek snorts and nods. "I've heard the stories. You do great work." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His smile stretches and he feels his cheeks warm. Ignoring how that recognition feels to receive, he pulls the power of their privacy dome towards him and releases it into the air. The bubble-like structure dissipates and the sounds of the forest and people around them finally reach their ears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Finally!" Magnus exclaims. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles flips him off with a loose gesture, smiling as he heads towards his friends. Cora and Jackson hurry over to Derek, as he approaches them, and their fussing makes Stiles' heart warm in his chest; even Peter seems to be appraising Derek as he watches everyone from the porch's stairs. Some of Derek's betas are concerned about him; some of Derek's betas aren't as selfish or self-centred. With those people in his corner, there's hope that Derek may grow and improve, both internally and externally. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you okay?" Alec asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, of course," Stiles replies. "You all ready to go?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"One more stop, right?" Caolán asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. He wants to see Claudia's grave before leaving. He wants to tell her how he's doing, and what has changed in his life since the last time he stood in front of her marker. Even though, logically, he knows she's not there, he likes to imagine that she can see him when he visits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before they can all climb into Stiles' vehicle, Derek clears his throat.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know if you'll ever return, but you're always welcome here," he says. "You and your friends. Maybe we can find some common ground in the future." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus, Alec, and Caolán all make sounds of agreement (although it's reluctant in Magnus' case). Stiles nods. He smiles at Derek; then, he turns his smile to the few people he knows are in Derek's corner and shares a look with each of them. Most of them nod; Cora grins and Peter lets his own smirk stretch into something more shark-like, probably only because he is the original creeperwolf in Beacon Hills and he cannot resist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We'll see how it goes," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek nods, too, and slips his hand into the pocket where Stiles' card is hidden. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Derek?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As he pulled the door closed, he heard Derek come out of the kitchen area of the loft. Stiles turned around and saw him as he wiped his hands on a dishtowel; in his grey Henley and faded jeans, the towel getting draped over his shoulder, he looked relaxed. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Is… is anyone else here?" Stiles asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek shook his head. "Isaac went with Scott… somewhere. I think Boyd's at home. Cora is with Malia and Erica. Peter… hasn't been by to annoy me yet," he replied. "What's up? Are you okay?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I… I wanted to…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When he trailed off, unsure of how to finish his sentence, Derek tilted his head towards the kitchen. "Come on. I'm still chopping and prepping ingredients," he insisted. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What are you making?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Chili," Derek replied. "Cora's birthday is tomorrow. I want to be able to set up the two slow cookers tonight so it's all ready to go in the morning." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He suspected there was some sort of pack gathering. Cora might love chili, but she probably didn't love that much chili in a day—even if it were her birthday. No one mentioned it to him; he wasn't going to ask about it and unintentionally invite himself in front of Derek. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Sweet," he said, unsure of what else he should say. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek nodded in agreement and turned back to the pile of vegetables he seemed to be chopping. After watching him for a few minutes, Stiles wandered away to the sitting area of the room. The loft was always very barebones, in terms of style, but there were three large sofas (and a pile of oversized cushions tucked in a corner), and Stiles looked at all of them. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The last time he'd sat down on one of the cushions, Feliks had complained that it smelled like Stiles when he sat there at the following gathering. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>If he were spiteful, he'd sit on everything and roll around. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>However, he was more tired than anything else. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles? Are you just hanging out, or… is there something you're working up to bringing up?" Derek asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"The second one," Stiles replied. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After a soft exhalation and a nod, Derek said, "Okay, let me know when you're ready." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Since he wasn't sure how to word his announcement, because he didn't want to offend Derek who had always had his back, Stiles fully intended to take a few minutes and think about how he wanted to tell Derek he was leaving the West Coast. The whole pack was going to know soon; John had blurted out his news at their last meal, so Feliks knew, and Stiles knew it was only a matter of time before Feliks told the rest of the pack that Stiles was finally going to be out of their collective hair. He wanted Derek to know he wasn't leaving because of anything he'd done to Stiles; he wanted Derek to know he appreciated every bit of support and consideration he'd given Stiles when he wasn't too busy growling. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Instead of taking the time, though, Stiles' brain-to-mouth filter failed him and he said, "I'm going to Philadelphia." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Today?" Derek asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"No… I think I'll go in August," Stiles replied.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek looked over his shoulder as he wiped his hand on a dishtowel. "So, you decided on UPenn," he said. "Congratulations. That's got to be a relief." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Relief?" Stiles echoed. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Once he put the knife down on the counter, Derek approached him. "Yeah, the decision is done, you can start worrying about what to pack, how to get there and back… all the other stuff. Now that you made the decision," he explained. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles nodded. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles? What's wrong?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Feliks… he said…" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Something dumb?" Derek asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles shrugged. "I dunno." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He didn't know. Derek had made it clear he was a part of them—although he didn't always include Stiles in everything, because some things were just for the werewolves and because some things were too dangerous for the squishy, weak human. But, Feliks had made it sound like a good thing that they'd be rid of him, and Stiles didn't know if Derek had been honest or if he'd just been trying to save Stiles' feelings. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It didn't seem like something Derek would do, but Derek had been surprising Stiles for years in a variety of ways. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"We'll make it work," Derek said, not waiting for Stiles to explain what Feliks had said. "It might be easier for you, because humans don't always need the pack the way werewolves do. But, even if it's harder, we'll figure it out. Whether we do group video calls or have visits more frequently—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Feliks suggested it would be better if I'm gone… like separate," Stiles interrupted.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Have you ever trusted me?" Derek asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Frown deepening, Stiles sat down on the sofa. "I trust you," he admitted. "But, I can't separate you from the others—and neither can you. You shouldn't. They're yours. They need you and you need them. I don't fit. It's fine." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"If you don't think you're pack, why do you—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You think I could sit back and let you or Scott or Feliks or any of the others die?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek sighed. "It's… you say you are a part of us, and you act like you want to be… but then… I don't know. It's a bit hot and cold from you, Stiles." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Well, I get a lot of hot and cold from your betas," Stiles muttered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"How can I help? What can I do?" Derek asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Nothing, big guy. There's nothing to say. I'm just… I want to know they're going to be safe while I'm gone, I guess. Or that you don't hate me for being weak." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek sat down next to him. "I don't hate you—and you're definitely not weak," he said. "I know things have been difficult for you—especially recently—and I don't know how to fix it." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles closed his eyes as he bowed his head. He knew he couldn't be fixed. He was just… broken. Derek didn't have to try to fix him; it would be a waste of energy. As much as he wished he could have thrived in the supernatural world, all it had done was take things from him and he wasn't sure what was left. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I better go," he whispered. "I'm sorry for just showing up like this, it's just—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Come to Cora's birthday tomorrow," Derek insisted. "Eleven o'clock. No present needed. Just come and be with us. No threat of death hanging over us, no plans to make. Just chili and hanging out." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That hadn't been what Stiles expected Derek to say. He lifted his head. Derek's eyes seemed wide and earnest; he seemed serious. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Derek… they didn't—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm inviting you. Because you're one of us," he said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Even though Stiles' instincts told him it would be a bad idea, he nodded and agreed to go to the party. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Deciding to post one more before I go to bed. I'll try to get the final chapter to you before tomorrow evening &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Looking down at Claudia's grave, Stiles doesn't know what to say. He knows he should hurry, because Caolán, Magnus, and Alec are waiting in the jeep, but he can't gather his thoughts. He'd been all right, with Derek and his issues acting as a distraction from his own problems, but standing in front of his mother's grave marker pulls out his emotions and reminds him of how happy they'd been, as a family, before she died—and how things between Feliks and Stiles and John had devolved in the years since her passing. He can't stop wondering what else Claudia had written in her letter to Stiles; he can't stop wondering what Claudia would think of her family if she could see them. As much as John loves his sons, there's a rift between them and Stiles knows that eventually that will affect John's relationship with one or both of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey, Mom," Stiles says. "I… god, I miss you. You'd know how to fix us. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know I still love Feliks because it hurts so much. He… he just keeps treating me like I don't matter or count. Every time I think I'm making some progress… he either says something or I find out about something he did… and I don't know how to forgive him. I don't know if I can. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What sort of adventures did you think I was going to have? Did you know I'd leave Beacon Hills and never come back? Did you know I don't fit here? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dad… I don't blame him. Maybe I should. But, Feliks is… he's easy, or simple, or he makes people think he is, so I know why he gravitated to Feliks. I'm like a weird squirrel porcupine hybrid. I don't know how to make it easy. He says he's going to try harder—and it feels like he is, we talked so much about what happened already. I just… I wish… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mom, I wish you were still with us," Stiles finishes as he closes his eyes against the tears filling them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sobs bubble up in his chest and spew out of his mouth before he can control himself. He pitches forward, not falling but only barely, and he wraps his arms around his torso as he bends and cries—for the grief of his mother's death, for the stress of being home, for the trauma of his abduction, and for the pain Feliks inflicted upon him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beacon Hills is not for him, no matter how much he wants it to be. His family will be fine without him. According to Mira, Deaton won't be released from custody any time soon—or before the trial (unless he accepts a plea), anyway—so the nemeton is safe. Derek will find a better-suited mate choice. He'll get his act together. The pack will probably flourish as a result. Derek might try to reach out, but he'll have his hands full with the pack and a mate and wolf babies; that olive branch will fall away, forgotten, and Stiles will settle for hearing bits and pieces of life in Beacon Hills from John during their rare phone calls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, his emotional wounds will scab over and harden. He'll remember how to breathe past his grief, and he'll continue trying to protect other supernatural beings. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows all of this, but his chest still </span>
  <em>
    <span>aches.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>A warm arm slides around his shoulders, pulling Stiles into a solid body. He knows it's Caolán by the feel of his energy, and he tries to straighten and pretend he's fine. Caolán doesn't let him; he murmurs quiet words of comfort and holds Stiles close until the storm passes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he is quiet again, Stiles wipes his eyes and looks at Claudia's gravestone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know how to forgive him. Or most of them, really," he admits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You don't have to figure it out now," Caolán says. "Or ever, if you feel you can't. You're not alone—and you won't ever be alone, if you don't want to be. We're with you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. They might not be the family he wanted to have, as a teenager, but they're good people and they stood by him even after his secret identity had been uncovered. They might not have the same history forged in fear and blood, but they've been there for each other in good times and bad times. They're his family now. Stiles knows they'll stand by him if he lets it happen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When Stiles brought his bike to a stop in the lot outside the loft's building, he couldn't see Derek's vehicle. He waited five minutes; he thought maybe he should wait for Derek, since he was the one who invited Stiles to Cora's birthday gathering. But, when Derek still hadn't appeared, Stiles gave himself a mental shake. Things weren't perfect, between him and the betas, and he wasn't sure he was part of the pack; however, he still cared about them and he wanted to wish Cora a happy day, in addition to accepting Derek's invitation. He felt like it was important. He should be brave and join them. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>His mind still whirled as he locked his bike and entered the building, contemplating all the possibilities of the situation, and he'd turned back a couple of times. By the time he finally made his way into the loft space, his legs felt weak from exertion. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Boyd met him at the door, smiling a little. "Hey," he said. "C'mon in. Drinks are in the kitchen, so help yourself." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Thanks, man. Is Derek here?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Shaking his head, Boyd replied, "Argent called him out to a meeting earlier. He'll be back in time for cake, at the latest." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Whatever Feliks, Scott, and Isaac were discussing by the windows was separate from the others. Malia nodded at him; they still hadn't completely recovered from Stiles' secret keeping and Malia's reaction to it, but she seemed to be thawing in his general direction. Lydia smiled and waved. Erica's attention was focused on Boyd; when he returned to the sofa, she clambered into his lap and kissed his cheek. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Is the, uh, meeting with Argent a big deal?" Stiles asked as he followed Boyd to the group on the sofas. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Erica shrugged. "He didn't say." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Probably just the treaty he's been trying to put in place," Cora added. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Trea—oh! Cora! Happy birthday," he said, blinking as he took note of Cora between Boyd and Malia. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She smiled. "Thanks. And yeah, apparently Argent wants some sort of official arrangement," she responded. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott turned around and headed towards the sofas. "Stiles! Feliks said you couldn't make it!" he exclaimed as he hurried over and took a seat next to Stiles. "Feels like forever since I've seen you." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles bit back the urge to remind Scott it had been only almost twenty-four hours since Stiles walked in on him and Feliks recovering from a training session, but he held his tongue. He forced himself to smile; he forced himself to nod. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah… Derek invited me," Stiles said. "The chili looked great in prep mode yesterday, so… I couldn't resist." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Cora's smile stretched. "It's Dad's recipe. He taught Laura and Derek, but he said he hasn't made it in years," she explained. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Should be ready in an hour," Boyd added, as if he knew that was going to be Stiles' next question. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Instead of asking anything about the chili, Stiles gestured towards Isaac and Feliks. Boyd kissed the side of Erica's head and followed Stiles' gesture to look at them, too, for a brief moment, before turning his attention back to Stiles. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"We just found out Jackson's joining Lydia and Feliks at Stanford in the fall," Boyd explained. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Ethan, too?" Stiles asked, assuming that was why Isaac looked unsettled. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scott piped up and spoke next. "Nah, Ethan's gonna stay in London for at least a year. But he'll come visit, probably, here and at school. For Jackson," he said. "Still. Y'know. We all have scars from back then." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles hummed in agreement. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"He's less of an ass without his alpha powers," Cora said. "Besides, Jackson is a Hale wolf. He should be with us."  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles looked at them all as they chimed in with various levels of agreement, and realised that he and Lydia were the only two in the room who weren't Hale werewolves—by bite, if not by blood. Malia was a werecoyote, but she was also a born Hale therianthrope, so she counted. Lydia might not have had claws and fangs, but she did have a scream that could liquify brains and rupture steel walls. Stiles was reminded that, apart from sharing experiences, he did not necessarily fit with them; he had trauma and nightmares and guilt, but nothing more useful than an ability to manipulate mountain ash.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When he focused back on what they were discussing, he realised Feliks and Isaac rejoined them; they'd started talking about how often they could meet during the new school year, while they were at different campuses. Isaac wanted them all to come back to Beacon Hills as often as possible; that made sense to Stiles because he was the only werewolf without easy access to a vehicle. Erica and Feliks thought they should meet at a common point; Scott agreed, too, when he realised that could mean they camp as much as they stay at a cheap motel. Boyd thought they should rotate—one campus' cohort should host the others, and they should do it all in turn—and Cora didn't care as long as they were together. Malia wanted to wait until Kira's next visit to determine when they could meet and visit; Lydia decided she would make a schedule and they could adjust it when Kira came out of the desert. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek hadn't yet returned. Stiles worried about the meeting with Argent; he worried Derek would never return. If he'd been there, Stiles would have gestured at them, to him, and mouthed </span>
  </em>
  <span>see what I mean?</span>
  <em>
    <span> and he hoped Derek would realise that Stiles wasn't imagining the distance between him and his supposed friends—and his family. But, he wasn't there, and Stiles could only sit there and let his insides churn. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>In the beginning, he'd been in the middle of it all. At the end, he was on the outside. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles couldn't decide which was a more terrifying place to be. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles, you haven't said anything, I don't think, but you're at UC Davis, aren't you?" Lydia asked, interrupting his thoughts. "If you're going to be sharing an apartment with the others—"  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He looked from Lydia to Feliks. "This is the one secret of mine you keep?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feliks shrugged. "I didn't really think… I mean, I thought it was somewhere you applied for Dad," he replied. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After a nod, Stiles turned back to Lydia. "No, I'm not going to UC Davis," he said. "I'm… well. I'm going to the University of Pennsylvania." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Lydia's eyebrows shot up towards her hairline. Then, she looked down at her tablet. "That is going to screw with my schedule," she said. "Do you think you'll be returning to visit?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Maybe for the major holidays?" Stiles replied. "Not sure yet. Can't exactly hop on a plane whenever I want." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"It's not like Stiles is really… y'know," Isaac said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles was relieved to see Lydia frowning along with him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Well, Isaac has a point," Feliks adds. "I mean, he's not… a werewolf. Or anything extra. He doesn't need the pack the way we do. He can stay at school. Safer for humans, right?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"And Lydia can do the research, if we need any done," Erica added, from her perch on Boyd's lap. "She made sure we got along just fine during the hunt." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"If anything does happen, while we're together, we won't have to worry about Stiles getting hurt," Isaac said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah, it'll be better," Scott added. "Clean break from the werewolf drama, dude. You can be normal for once." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Well, Stiles' level of normal is not actually normal," Malia commented. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Boyd turned to Stiles, studying him for a long moment, before he said, "You should come if you can. It will be good to see you." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah, but, I mean, it's like he said," Cora said, adding her two cents' worth of opinion, "he can't just fly across the country at a moment's notice because we want to get together. Maybe it's better if he just… stays there. Through the school year, anyway."  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles looked at Scott, hoping for some sort of defence or insistence on his behalf, but Scott didn't say anything else. The damage—although it wasn't terrible, given what Stiles had said the last time he and Scott were alone—was done. Scott turned towards Isaac and was talking to him about if he was going to look for a summer job. It was as if they'd all decided; it was as if there was nothing left to discuss. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There wasn't a big fight or a razor-sharp jab, but there was enough to make that moment Stiles' tipping point. After everything Stiles had done for the werewolves and everything he'd endured because of the werewolves, Scott especially, Stiles decided he was done. Nothing he could do would make him a priority with any of the beta werewolves. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He cleared his throat. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Fine. Then, allow me to say thank you for congratulating me on getting into a handful of really great schools and on finally making my choice. I really appreciate your asking me all about it. And thank you very fucking much for standing up for me and including me. I had no idea that I still had to prove myself—after everything—or that nothing I've done could ever make a difference. And, now, you win: I am officially done," Stiles said as he rose to a standing position. "Happy birthday, Cora, I hope you have a fabulous year." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>On that note, Stiles left. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It may have been overdramatic, but Stiles didn't care. Feliks and Scott… he couldn't even think about them without wanting to scream and shout. Brothers were supposed to stand by each other and support each other; neither Feliks nor Scott acted like the brothers they were supposed to be. Stiles wasn't a delicate orchid, he didn't need constant care; however, he knew he needed support and help, and he also knew he wouldn't receive it from the pack of people for whom he had risked his life, repeatedly, over the last few years. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When he stepped outside, he saw Derek sitting on the entrance step. He sat down next to him, wordlessly, and waited. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Not staying?" Derek asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"No… I… they said some things," Stiles admitted. "I sort of stormed out in a huff." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Y'know. Humans don't belong in a pack. I can go off to school and be normal. Stuff like that. They're up there planning their visits… and I just… can't stay for that." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek sighed and bowed his head. "They're idiots," he muttered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Well, they're your idiots," Stiles reminded him. "Take care of them. And yourself. And, maybe my dad, too, if you have some free time?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Without warning, Derek pulled Stiles into a hug. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'll try to fix it."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Don't worry about it, big guy. You can't actually knock sense into people. If you could, I'd be loads more sensible." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek chuckled into his shoulder. Stiles tried not to let that affect him too much—but Derek laughing, even a little, was a beautiful thing. When they separated, Stiles could still see a bit of that humour on his face; he knew he was swooning on the inside, but feeling that was preferable to feeling the pack-induced misery from a few seconds ago. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The swooping turned into plummeting when Derek's face fell into a sadder expression. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles… I… look. I… there's something, I've been sitting out here trying to figure out how to tell you… I was at a meeting… it… I'm not supposed to tell anyone, but you need to know," he said. "Can I come by this week? We can go somewhere safe and private and talk about it?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>In the face of that serious sadness, Stiles was powerless to resist. He nodded. "Yeah… yes, of course," he said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He didn't think he'd be in town much longer—only long enough to pack his few possessions and to plan his cross-country trip. He could wait that long for Derek; Derek had given him a lot of support, despite his pack's attitude, and Stiles could try to return the favour. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"See you soon, then," Stiles said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek brushed his hand against Stiles's neck and shoulder. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah, see you soon," Derek agreed. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles lifts his head from Caolán's shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could have sworn he heard Claudia's voice on the wind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mischief! </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That is his mother. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was she a ghost? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles frowns as he tries to pinpoint the source of the sound. It seems to be coming from the trees on the edge of the cemetery. He steps away from Caolán and turns towards the sound. Behind them, he can hear Magnus and Alec getting out of the vehicle. At his side, Caolán is saying his name and trying to get his attention. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His focus is on the wind, though. Caolán might as well be back at the vehicle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mischief! Mieszko! Come look at this! </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He walks forward—even though it could be a trap, even though it could be a hallucination rooted in heart-sickness. He walks until he reaches the edge of the cemetery; he walks into the woods, continuing towards the source of the voice with his friends scurrying after him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The walk takes longer than he thought it would. Stiles can feel sweat on his skin under his shirts. Just as he's about to give up, he sees the nemeton in the next clearing; a laugh bubbles out of his throat as he looks at the tree. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Seriously?" he asks out into the air. "You didn't need to pretend to be my mom to get me to come here to say goodbye!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán touches his elbow. "You heard your mother's voice?" he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. "Yeah. Calling to me." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Really? The nemeton can do that?" Alec asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a shrug, Magnus says, "She has all the energy of the ley lines flowing through her. I'm guessing she can do almost anything she wants." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles huffs out a laugh and moves towards the tree. "Hey, lady," he murmurs as his hand touches her trunk. "I know I came by and thanked you earlier, but you </span>
  <em>
    <span>were</span>
  </em>
  <span> a big help. So, thanks again, I guess." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he presses close to her, in what he hopes is considered a hug, he looks down and sees little shoots and leaves coming up from the ground. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Mieczysław…"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles jumps at the sound of his mother's voice at a louder volume. No longer a tease to lure him into the preserve, her voice fills the air around him—and around his friends, judging by their gasps at the sound of Stiles' real name. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I know this period has been hard for you. I can see it in your expressive eyes, full of wariness when you approach me; it breaks my heart when I'm with you, lucid, because I never wanted to be the reason you're in so much pain. Life is so unpredictable, even when you've lived as long as I have. When I held you and your brother for the first time, I prayed to the universe to protect us—and I know we've been blessed because I was able to protect my family for as long as I could. Time runs out, even for someone like me (or someone like you), and we have to accept this fact." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Everyone heard that, right?" Alec asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Stiles closes his eyes and bows his head forward until his forehead brushes the bark. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"This won't make sense to you now, but I think it will later. My gifts aren't strong in Feliks like they are in you. Remember our adventures in the forest, think of our time together fondly; I trust you to see past childhood magic and see the real magic between us. You are going to go on your own adventures and do amazing things—I just know it, don't argue with me—and you're going to make us all so proud of you."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus huffs out a quiet sound of amused agreement. Caolán whispers his agreement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles blushes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I wish I could be the one to teach you. I hate that I'm not going to be here to watch you flourish. If you need someone to help you learn, go to Talia Hale. She and her brother, Peter, will be able to find someone if you tell them you're my son </span>
  </em>
  <span>in every way.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Show them my necklace and they'll understand. We're rare, but the theory is similar within other lines and practices. If they suggest someone named Alan, you tell them absolutely not and you leave. Alan will never understand you the way you deserve to be understood. He will never respect your abilities and strengths. No matter what, Mischief, you must believe me and stay away from that man. Promise me."</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>"She knew," Stiles breathes. "And Peter—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Alan is the Deaton guy," Alec says. "She knew about him? Did he know about her? About you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shakes his head. "No idea," he says in reply. "This… I thought Mom was just… imaginative. Creative."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"She was… definitely something," Magnus comments. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles lifts his head and looks at him. His head is raised as he looks at the nemeton's branches and leaves; his eyes are yellow with narrow pupils, without their usual glamour, and they are narrowed in examination. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he can ask what Magnus is seeing or thinking, Claudia's voice resumes speaking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Now. Your father and brother might not understand you, either. They're more… well, they need proof and it could take a while for you to give them proof. I know your father tries to believe me—his love is so powerful, and it is my most fervent wish that you find someone who loves you as much as or more than he loves me—but he is a man of evidence, through and through, and I know he doesn't see the world the way we can. Don't let their beliefs dishearten you. Let your love and strength grow, Mischief. Let your truth shine when the moment comes.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"When I'm in my right mind, when I see you, you remind me of laughter in the air and in the leaves. Find that laughter again after I'm gone. I have no idea what awaits me, in the great unknown, but I will try to join you if I am able to. You will never be alone if it is in my lingering power."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles thinks back on the years following Claudia's death, and he wonders if she'd be disappointed with all of them for how they coped with the loss of her from their lives. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I love you so much. I love our family so much. Please look after your father and brother as I know they'll look after you. It's going to be rough, and I hate that, but I have faith that you'll come together and figure out how to fill the hole I fear I will leave in your hearts. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Love Always, <br/>Mom." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn't until Stiles stops hearing his mother's voice that he realises his cheeks are streaked with tears. He bows his head again and turns away from his friends as he tries to wipe the tears away; moving in that way puts him in position to see the growth of plants around the base of the nemeton's trunk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Holy…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He ducks down and studies the plants. Along one side of the trunk, there are white roses, but on the side facing Stiles, there are a multitude of plants. Strands of chives fade into the feathery leaves of dill. Tarragon is hard to see until it brushes against the hyssop. Common sage fills in the next bit of space, and it is accompanied by red salvia. After that, he notices forget-me-nots between the roses and the herbs; ivy is beginning to climb up the base of the tree. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nestled in the dirt at the base of some of the rose bushes, is Claudia's locket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles remembers the necklace. She wore it all the time—even when swimming. In public, it hid under her shirt, but she wore it on top of her collar when she was in the house or when she and Stiles were out on an adventure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reaches for it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't," Magnus says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's my mom's," Stiles protests. "I remember—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Would you look at the garden around you?" Magnus interrupts. "This is a message." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán clears his throat. "White roses—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"She's saying Stiles is worthy of her," Magnus says. "And the forget-me-nots are an obvious touch." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Ivy is for fidelity," Caolán continues. "Chives, usefulness. Dill is considered powerful against evil in folklore."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hyssop can mean a sacrifice," Magnus adds. "Common sage… wisdom and… and immortality." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alec steps forward and puts his hand on Magnus' shoulder. "And with the red salvia, for 'forever mine,' and tarragon, for lasting interest," he says. "We talked about adding those, Mags." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus nods and turns into Alec to give him a hug. Something about those correspondences upset both of them; Stiles has no idea what it is, but he knows it's not his business unless they decide to let him in on the secret. He waits, instead, to see if they will tell him why he can't reach for the necklace. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán begins to explain the situation. "It sounds as if she is making you an offer," he says. "It would make sense, wouldn't it? If the nemeta could choose guardians? This one had been damaged by the so-called druid…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Around the time of Mom's death… I think. Before or after. I'm not sure," Stiles agrees. He looks from the nemeton to the necklace. "You think she was this nemeton's guardian." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After two brief nods, Caolán says, "Yes, I do. It would explain… a lot. How her power has been unfocused and unchecked for so long—building as Deaton allowed sacrifices to be made." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Did he kill my mom?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Will it change anything, knowing for sure?" Caolán asks in response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sighs and shakes his head. "No, not really… she's still gone," he says. "And he's arrested. I doubt there's proof. But, I fully plan to spread word—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Right there with you," Alec interrupts. "Between all of us we'll spread the word to the right people. He won't be welcome in our communities if or when he's released from prison."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kneeling in the grass in front of the nemeton's magic garden, Stiles looks back at his mother's necklace. He wants to take it so badly—it is supposed to be his!—but he can't deny that the choices of plants have a message that is worth serious consideration. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will he be trapped in Beacon Hills? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will he lose his mind like Claudia did? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will he be irrevocably tied to a pack he can't trust?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will he have to abandon his work?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What are you thinking?" Caolán asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sighs and forces his eyes away from the jewelry. "I want it. It's hers… and I thought it was lost," he says. "But, I don't know if I can tie myself to Beacon Hills." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're already tied to this place," Alec says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. "Yeah, but I can leave when it's too much," he replies. "Will this stop me from traveling and helping people?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, probably not," Magnus says, as he eyes the tree and its new garden. "But, if there's danger… you might be drawn here. And… it's hard to say how long the bond or agreement will last. There are a few references to immortality in her message." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That can't be a real thing. Something of Stiles' thoughts must show on his face because Magnus frowns and continues talking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Immortality is… difficult," he says. "You will watch people you love die. You will try to stop making connections to avoid that pain. Your outlook on the world… it will be irrevocably altered. While I would be glad to have some company, I wouldn't wish it on anyone." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles blinks. "Wait… what?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus smiles a sad smile. "We all practice magic," he says, "but we aren't necessarily the same species of magic user." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wow." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We don't know if his will be the same as yours," Alec says. "He could become a spirit or something." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How do we figure it out?" Stiles asks. "I don't think she's going to let me think it over. Maybe me hesitating is changing her mind." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán shrugs. "I'd rather someone need time to consider such a weighty offer," he says. "I'd be wary if someone immediately accepts a bond like this." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Deaton would be so pissed," Stiles mutters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus snorts. "Yes, he would." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles reaches out and touches the nemeton's bark. "Can you show me what you're thinking?" he asks the tree. "Anything? I've never read about this type of work. I've never… I have no idea what I'm doing." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The images rush through his mind before he can brace for the waking dream (montage) experience. He sees an Indigenous person in leather and roughly woven fabric, praying before the tree; he sees that same person with others, crouching with wolves and seemingly preparing to hunt. He sees a light-skinned man, with a full beard and long curls in a copper red shade, conducting a ritual of some kind at the base of a large foreign tree on a wide, grassy slope. He sees both figures in other geography and other times, in good and bad situations. He sees a different woman, in a bodice and hooped skirt, standing at this tree with a pack of werewolves. He sees other people standing with other trees and other supernatural beings. He sees his mother in clothing that came decades before her supposed birth, at one of the other nemeta; he sees her later, at Beacon Hills' nemeton, in her modern garb with a swollen belly. He sees people and places, in varying time periods. He sees happiness and sadness, ease and difficulty, love and hate, birth and loss. It is unending and interconnected. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Underneath all of those images, there is a warm sensation of love and hope building in his chest. It feels so good; Stiles can't believe the bond will ever be bad. As a result of those feelings inside of him, Stiles reaches out and takes the necklace. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the same time, Magnus and Alec shout; Stiles feels his mind and body overload with energy that does not belong to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They race towards him as Stiles collapses. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Stiles surfaces to awareness to see Magnus, Alec, and Caolán sitting on the grass around him. Caolán is leaning back on his hands; his eyes are closed and he seems to be enjoying the warm sun. Alec is drawing in his sketchbook. Magnus is on his tablet, scrolling through something and muttering to himself in a language Stiles doesn't understand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He yawns and stretches. All three friends focus on him within seconds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do I still look like me?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alec snorts. "Sort of." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Just a new tattoo or marking from what we can see—on your neck and, I think, continuing onto your back," Caolán adds before Stiles' panic can take over his mind. "And you were glowing for a while. I recorded some of it on my phone—for science." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smiles. "Nifty. I'll definitely be watching that later." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You idiot," Magnus mutters. "You just grabbed it. You're lucky that's all that happened." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"She showed me—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What could she have possibly shown you that would make this bond worthwhile?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"—everything," Stiles continues. "The good and the bad. The nemeton doesn't need a connection. She's powerful when she's pure and strong. It's… it's an honour."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And will it be an honour if someone kills you to try to access that power?" Magnus shoots back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mom didn't see it as a bad thing," Stiles says, thinking about how at peace she'd appeared to be as she approached the tree. "I think Mom was sort of immortal. She was… the nemeton showed her in different times. Man, Dad would have freaked out if he'd known." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's a hard thing to wrap your head around," Alec admits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You did," Stiles says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alec nods. "I love Magnus," he says, as if that is more than enough of an explanation for accepting that Magnus has lived a lot longer than him and will continue to live after he dies.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inching closer to Stiles, Caolán asks, "Are you ready to sit up?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How long have I been out?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Caolán smiles. "A few hours," he replies. "I went back to the cemetery and brought the jeep closer."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I think the alpha is pacing around the forest, too," Alec adds. "We heard whining before you woke up." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's the only wolf who can full-shift, right?" Caolán asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The only wolf, yeah, as far as I know," Stiles replies. "It wouldn't be anyone else. God, I could do without the pack finding out about this."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What did you think would happen when you bonded with the nemeton in their territory?" Magnus mutters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. Magnus is worried; he can hear it in Magnus' tight voice. He knows Magnus will understand why Stiles accepted the nemeton's offer, once his anxiety fades. He knows they'll be able to talk about the experience and theorise about how Stiles' life will change. Magnus just needs to breathe past his fear and concern. When he sees that Stiles doesn't regret accepting the nemeton's offer, his tone and words will soften. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He closes his eyes and takes stock of his physical state. He feels fine—or how he usually feels, anyway, apart from a bone-deep exhaustion he hadn't been feeling earlier. The locket is still in his hand; his fingers are clutched around it. The metal feels surprisingly cool for having been in his hand while he slept. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he tries to lift himself into a sitting position, he flounders. Caolán chuckles and helps him on his second attempt; they succeed where Stiles alone failed. He looks around, first at his immediate surroundings (the tree is still surrounded by its botanical message; Alec is smiling at him; Magnus is pouting at his tablet), and then at the wider area around them (everything is bright, warm, and quiet, except for a shadow under a thick bush that Stiles is pretty sure is Derek in his wolf form). He yawns again and rubs his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His belly grumbles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hungry?" Alec teases. "We'll stop somewhere on our way out of town." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Assuming he can still leave," Magnus says. "He might be trapped here forever." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A bird squawks loudly. Stiles snorts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Can you sense her?" Caolán asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles looks around the clearing, settling on the tree. He can feel how they're connected; the tie is subtle until he focuses upon it and then he can feel a vibration of energy as if it's both along and under his skin. It doesn't feel like a tether or a trap—but he also doesn't know how those things would feel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. "It's just… warm, vibey energy. Let's try it. I need food and sleep and preferably a shower," he says, rising to his knees in preparation to stand. "I'll be back at some point. She knows that. She can probably reach me anywhere in the world, riding those telluric currents." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A chorus of birds sing from branches in a nearby tree. Stiles smiles. It feels like he'll still have his freedom. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A notably wolfish whine follows the sound of the birds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Derek, come out here," Stiles calls out. "You don't need to shift back. It's fine." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alec gasps when Derek slowly walks out of the shadows. His eyes don't flash, but he glares at the other magic users in a way that makes Stiles chuckle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Get used to it, big guy, you're impressive like this," Stiles says. "Come meet the nemeton. She's changed a lot since this all started." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Starting with his gaze fixated on the tree's trunk and its little garden, Derek raises his head until he's looking at its leafy top. He cocks his head to one side; Stiles wonders if he can sense something about the convergence point. His eyes glow red and he moves as if he's following something he can only see with his enhanced sight. When Derek's eyes land on Stiles, he has the distinct impression that Derek is asking about the connection between him and the tree. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's new, so I don't know much. I'm guessing I'll be back more often than I expected," Stiles admits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek relaxes and lets the red light fade from his eyes. He settles on his haunches and huffs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't act so pleased," Magnus snaps. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surprisingly, to Stiles, Derek doesn't react to Magnus. He keeps his eyes on Stiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's just worried about me," Stiles says. "There aren't exactly shelves of books on this. I sort of accepted the nemeton's offer on blind faith." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We should check Deaton's house or office while he's in custody," Alec says. "He might have something about nemeta, given how focused he was on harvesting her energy." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still looking at Derek, Stiles says, "His office." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek nods his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is Scott working today?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek shakes his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sighs. "So he didn't show up this morning because he's avoiding me," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, you threatened to curse away his voice if he betrays you again," Caolán reminds them. "I wouldn't be too keen to cross your path again, either." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. "I'm not apologising for that. He gave my hair to Deaton." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Good," Magnus said. "He deserves worse. He was willing to take away your free will." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek nods again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After another sigh, Stiles says, "I don't know what's going to happen, big guy. I trust you, but I don't trust most of your current pack. Which is a problem on several levels, for both of us. If I'm going to do this… any of this, I will need space from the pack." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The squawking bird protests. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles turns and looks at the nemeton. "Are you kidding me? They don't get instant access to Stiles </span>
  <em>
    <span>or</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jimmy! And, if that's a dealbreaker, you can take back this gift!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek brushes his nose against the back of Stiles' head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know if I'll ever forgive them, Derek," Stiles whispers. "I'll always come when the territory needs to be protected from a threat. It's my job—both of them—but I can't let go of the pain just because they want me to. I'm not wired that way." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In response, Derek rests his head on Stiles' shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You need to be careful, Derek," Stiles whispers, repeating the important points of their earlier conversation. "I don't know what's going on, but it feels… bad. Like I said before, I need you to get better—trust your instincts, be your best alpha self. The nemeton needs that from you, too." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek whines. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stay like that for a few minutes; when Stiles becomes restless, Derek moves away and watches Stiles rise to his feet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels steady. He doesn't feel stronger than he did before he sealed his fate with that of the nemeton. He just feels like… Stiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek butts his head against Stiles' thigh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Thanks, big guy," Stiles murmurs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Can we go now?" Magnus asks. "We have to raid an evil magic user's hoard, find food, and still drive home." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alec pats his shoulder. "Mags, you need to calm down," he advises. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't tell me to calm down! Stiles just tied himself to the people who don't at all appreciate him!" Magnus exclaims. He ignores the way Derek growls; Stiles puts his hand on Derek's back and scratches in what he hopes is a calming gesture. "His own brother kept critical information from him that could have spared the Hales pain—then and now. His so-called best friend tried to… to… magic-rape him! And you saw how the others all look at him—" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's a crummy situation," Alec agrees. "The betas saw no value in a human—and they quickly changed their minds when they realised he could be useful."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Feliks had no idea Claudia was tied to the nemeton—or that Stiles could be, too," Alec continues. "He didn't know anything about the supernatural at the time. It sucks—and I know Stiles wishes he'd received the letter when he should have. But Feliks wasn't deliberately trying to keep Stiles from </span>
  <em>
    <span>this.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The rest… might stem from this, or it might be a bigger problem. We don't know." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus crosses his arms. "If Izzy—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I would be mad, obviously," Alec interjects. "It's up to Feliks and Stiles how they repair their relationship—or if they do at all." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a loud, huffing sigh, Magnus says, "He's our friend. Our family." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And we can protect and support him," Alec continues. "He's going to need us."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Always, Magnus," Stiles adds. "And I'm glad you're still here after—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus waves one hand in a dismissive gesture. "We all keep secrets. A name makes sense. Some people only need a name," he says. He frowns. "I won't let you be used up by people who don't know how lucky they are to even know you exist." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The songbirds chirp in harmony from their collective perch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek grunts in what Stiles interprets as agreement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles knows his cheeks are flushed. He can feel the heat in his skin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay, enough," Stiles mutters. He looks down at Derek. "Can we just take everything from Deaton's office and send it to you when we're finished—if it's safe to be handled?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek nods his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay. Well. We better get started," Caolán says before Stiles can speak again. "Stiles, do you want to eat first?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He only needs a moment to consider the situation. "Let's check the clinic first. If someone's there, we can go eat," he says. "We'll need to mask ourselves before we approach. Car, too. Scott lives above—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek turns his body in the opposite direction, pointing pointedly with his head. Stiles thinks about where they are, before he realises Derek is telling him where Scott is presently located. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's at Melissa's?" Stiles asks. He studies Derek. "Dude! Did you sic Melissa on Scott?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Derek nods, Stiles cackles. Melissa is a far better punishment than late night patrols. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That will make it easier," Alec says. "We can stop the cameras and mask our scents. That's manageable." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he starts towards his vehicle with the others, Stiles feels Derek's nose press into his free hand. He turns and squats down in front of Derek; they look into each other's eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I will be back, in some way, at some point," Stiles says. "You just… stay alive, okay?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In response, Derek whines. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You have my number," Stiles reminds him. "I was serious about trying to fix things… and it sounds like we have a lot to </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> talk about. Let's start with just us and see how it goes." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek whines again as he nods. Stiles receives the distinct impression that Derek thinks they won't be able to fix things; he doesn't know why that would be the case, but he is overloaded and can't handle a serious conversation after everything that already happened. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I screwed up a little, too, just leaving the way I did," Stiles admits. "We'll both try. If you want." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After another nod from Derek, Stiles stands and walks away from both the alpha and the nemeton. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When he entered Stiles' and Feliks' bedroom and saw Stiles packing a suitcase and several already-addressed boxes, John didn't say anything at first. He leaned against the doorframe as Stiles tried to decide what clothes he needed right away and what could be shipped later. Then, he saw the plane ticket on Stiles' dresser and picked up the print-off to study it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"This says tomorrow morning—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm going to get the last bus to the airport tonight if you can drive me," Stiles said. "I'll go through security, hang out, and read. It's just a few hours." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Why?" John asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles frowned as he looked at the stack of hooded sweatshirts. "Why, what?" he replied. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles, you have two months before—" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I've got a sublet lined up," Stiles interjected. "Gonna get the lay of the land early, so I'm ready." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John frowned. "What about the pack?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles held up two red hoodies. "Which do you like better? The one on the left has a bit of blood on the sleeve, and the other one has kanima or werewolf claw holes in the back." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stiles." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He sighed. He was done waiting—for Derek to come to him with whatever had to be said, or for the pack to change their minds, he wasn't sure which—and he knew it was time to move away from Beacon Hills. He was done being the unwanted sidekick; he was done being hurt, insulted, or isolated at every wild turn his life had taken. He was making a stand and he was protecting himself against being hurt by the people he couldn't stop himself from loving or liking. He was done. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm pretty sure the pack kicked me out," Stiles admitted. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Thanks, Dad." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"No, no, I just mean… you've been with them from the beginning, through thick and thin—"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Your other sons and the rest of the puppies made it very clear I should go," Stiles muttered. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John's expression softened. "Oh, Stiles… maybe it's not what you think," he said. "You've saved their lives." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah, well. Werewolf trumps human. Banshee trumps human, too. I'm out," Stiles said. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Maybe you just hurt their feelings?" John suggested.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>While Stiles suspected the pack still held a grudge about Allison and Aiden (and Stiles respected that because he would never forgive himself for those deaths, either), he knew they'd meant to break ties between himself and the pack because they didn't consider him important or valuable enough. He knew they saw him as unnecessary dead weight. The time they'd lived in a world where Stiles didn't exist taught them he didn't matter. They were following through on what they'd learned. They were closing ranks. Nothing Stiles said or did could change their decision—and Stiles suspected nothing Derek said or did would change their minds, either. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Derek might see he possessed some value, but Derek had his betas to think about. A leader couldn't be a leader if they didn't listen to his followers; Derek needed to listen to his pack because he needed them. So, Stiles understood why something important stopped being important after a few days with the betas. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But, he didn't need to stick around for any possible excuses for why he can't be informed or included. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Does Feliks even have any feelings?" Stiles asked. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Watch it," John scolded. "He's your brother." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles wanted to tell John that being siblings didn't mean they had to like each other. Stiles wanted to ask why John couldn't stand up for Stiles the way he stood up for Feliks. But, in the face of John's protective mood and in the last hours Stiles would spend in that house for months, Stiles didn't want to start a fight. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Can you drive me to the bus station?" Stiles asked instead. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah… of course. I wish… I wish you aren't leaving like this, though," John replied. "I thought we'd have more time." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Me, too, Dad," Stiles agreed. "But, there's always Skype and FaceTime. We'll work it out." </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#####</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It took a long time to leave Beacon Hills. Deaton's office was well-organised, but it was also loaded with artifacts, books, and ingredients. Derek eventually made his way to the clinic, too, but he'd elected to stay outside while Stiles, Caolán, Magnus, and Alec took possession of the arrested man's possessions. It all fit in Stiles' car—or it did when Magnus secretly shunted most of the collection into his workroom by creating a portal—and anything truly dangerous was carefully packed and stored in nullifying lockboxes in Stiles' trunk</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is a pile of notebooks full of Deaton's tidy scrawl that Stiles can't wait to read. He hopes they'll tell him what </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> Deaton has done during his time in Beacon Hills. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is also a wreath of hex bags that gives Stiles </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> bad feelings. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After another (albeit more casual and distant) goodbye with Derek, they finally put Beacon Hills in the rearview mirror.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Excelsior feels different than Beacon Hills does, and Stiles welcomes the change. There is no burden of history in Excelsior. There are no werewolves or banshees playing games with his feelings. He doesn't have to worry about an evil mastermind plotting to kill him, either—at least for the next day or two. </span>
</p>
<p><span>Their little social circle descends on them and Magnus' spacious condominium almost as soon as they arrive. First, there are hugs and kisses and curses and laughter. Then, they divide themselves into teams and tackle the work ahead of them. Wilder and Jeff help Magnus and Alec move Stiles' possessions into the spare room and Deaton's things into Magnus' office. Mira, Morgana, and Margo start going through the items taken from Deaton's office; they sort everything into piles (labeled </span><em><span>safe</span></em><span> and </span><em><span>dangerous</span></em><span> and </span><em><span>fucked up, </span></em><span>thanks to Margo)</span> <span>and Stiles notices a few sticky notes being stuck to the items each of them want if they are not being shipped back to the Hales. Eliot, Caolán, and Clary handle food and drinks; there will be enough for an army by the time they are finished. Liam helps Stiles unpack his clothes and weapons. </span></p>
<p>
  <span>It's the first time Stiles has been alone with Liam, ever. Even at the hospital, after Stiles had been saved, someone had stayed in the room with them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He is a quiet soul. He feels peaceful, in terms of energy. Stiles thought it would be awkward when Liam offered to help, but it's nice. They don't talk much; it isn't bad because Stiles is sick of talking and his mind is full of thoughts he needs to sift and sort. The work of completely unpacking for the first time in </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span> is giving his body something to do while his mind works. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he concentrates, he can feel the nemeton's energy still inside of him—or still connected to his own energy. He is trying hard not to concentrate, though; his first attempt sent his mind's eye into the heart of the preserve where the pack was running or training. He can do without the nemeton's magical security camera power. He knows the nemeton can still reach him wherever he is—or at least when he's in Excelsior—and he has no idea if that's because of the telluric currents or because of the crystals. He isn't particularly keen on investigating that; she can reach him, she can show him the forest, and that's enough until he finishes processing the turn his life has taken. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses in his work to send two texts: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Made it to Excelsior and we're unpacking. Hope you're okay,</span>
  </em>
  <span> to John; and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Got here safe and sound,</span>
  </em>
  <span> to Derek. When he looks up and pockets his phone, Liam is looking at him over his case of wolfsbane. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How are you doing?" Liam asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"With the torture trauma?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam smiles a bit. "No, I meant with your secret out in the open," he clarifies. "Is it weird for you? That we know about your past?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam's question—or the added specificity to it—catches Stiles off-guard. He's been thinking about it, but he hasn't been asked about it—specifically—yet. For so long, Stiles Stilinski and Jimmy Travers lived separate lives. Stiles existed around Beacon Hills; Jimmy existed in the shadows. It's been years since Stiles was the same person all the time to the people in his life. Now, people in Beacon Hills and in Excelsior knew Stiles and Jimmy were the same person. His secret was out in the world—at least a little bit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He isn't sure how he feels about it, to be honest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he tells Liam that, Liam smiles and nods. "Makes sense," he says. "We've all got our secrets. The curse of being supernaturally inclined, I guess, but it's also a big part of being human." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. "Yeah… that's a good point," he agrees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"For instance, for a long time, Mira and Wilder were the only two who know—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It isn't quid pro quo, Liam," Stiles interjects, sensing that Liam is about to share one of his own secrets. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam smiles more. "I know. And if it were, I wouldn't tell you," he says. "You're one of us now, if that makes sense, and you're trusting us to help protect you and your family. I am comfortable telling you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sits on the futon and gives Liam his full attention. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"When I… well. When I was a baby, my mother named me Lisa," Liam says. "I didn't become Liam until I turned twenty-three." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without hesitation, Stiles asks, "You're healthy? And happy?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam nods. "Yeah… yes. More the former than the latter—but that's just life in general," he replies. "It took a while to get here." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm really glad you did," Stiles says. "Is there anything you need or want from me?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a shrug, Liam says, "Just treat me the same." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're still the same person… of course," Stiles says after a shrug of his own. "Thanks for telling me—for trusting me with your secret." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's not a big top secret sort of secret. I'm Liam, that's all that matters," Liam deflects. "But, I wanted to tell you so you understand. I'm difficult with new people." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Me, too," Stiles says. "Dude, I had one friend through most of grade school. I get it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam smirks. "I thought that was just because you never stop talking," he teases. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles groans and clutches his chest. "Oh my god. You have jokes! I had no idea! Always so serious and business-like… but you joke!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I've been known to joke," Liam concedes, still smiling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You have a sense of humour," Stiles says. "We can be friends now. Officially." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That's all it takes?" Liam asks with one eyebrow raising. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs and nods. "I'm easy."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam's smile stretches wider—not quite a grin, but showing a little more of his teeth—and he nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Aren't you guys finished yet?" Mira asks from the doorway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles looks around. He doesn't have much in the way of personal stuff, but his books, resources, and weapons make up a fairly extensive collection. Magnus had a bunch of industrial shelves moved into this spare room; Stiles had started spreading his collection out on them so he could actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> everything in his arsenal. He's so used to lugging it all with him—and that serves him well in dangerous, unpredictable situations—but he is curious about packing only specific tools for specific cases. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, he can admit to himself, he is curious about how it will feel to have a more permanent home base than a temporary or short-term rental. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sorry," Stiles says. "We got to talking." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mira smiles. "Good. But, take a break. We're ready to eat and you need some rest," she advises. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a nod, Liam looks at Stiles. "Sound good?" he asks. "We can get back to this later—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Or tomorrow," Stiles says, smiling. "I'm not running out of here any time soon." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam smiles, too. "Good."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He puts the wolfsbane case on one of the shelves. Brushing his hands on his jeans, he nods to Stiles and slips past Mira on his way to the rest of the group. Once they're alone, Stiles steels himself against the urge to tell Mira everything; he knows he will, eventually (probably), but he feels oddly protective of the nemeton and his new bond with the convergence, and he's completely unsure of how he feels about his connection to the pack's territory. It's going to take a while before he's wrapped his head around that and figured out how he really feels about those developments. He knows, when he settles his thoughts, he'll be ready to talk to Mira and listen to what she thinks about his new situation. Until then, though, he wants to keep those developments to himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You seem… stronger," Mira says, after evaluating him with her critical eyes. "You look like you're on your way to healing."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm trying," Stiles admits. "There's still a lot I'm not sure about." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mira nods. She'd been in Beacon Hills; Stiles is sure she's learned a few things about his past. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Come on," she urges him, gesturing with her hands. "Let's go eat and drink. The serious stuff can wait." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles smiles and walks towards her. She isn't particularly motherly, in her mentorship, but she does make it clear that she cares about him. Her arm slides around his shoulders and eases him into her side as they walk down the hallway and towards the sounds of conversation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're going to be okay," she murmurs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods. Before he can even open his mouth to agree, Morgana appears at the other end of the hall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Would you two hurry up?" she demands, her wide, toothy grin on display. "Stiles can unpack later. He has time." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is so weird to hear 'Stiles' coming out of everyone's mouths, still, that it takes a few moments for him to recover and continue walking towards the rest of their friends. Mira laughs softly next to him and squeezes her hand around his shoulder; she seems to understand, and Stiles is sure that they'll discuss his name at some point during his stay with Magnus and Alec. They have time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The meal passes in a blur of drinks and platters. They seem to have ordered from several restaurants in the area; there are different nationalities on the table. Stiles picks as much as he can, his plate full of items like tetelas oaxaca, potstickers, and aloo pakoras, and he even allows himself to have a couple glasses of beer from one of Alec's favourite local breweries. Conversation is light and raucous and only barely centred on Stiles' time in Beacon Hills; Eliot and Margo tell them all about the latest gossip at the clubs, Morgana shares some of the highlights of an interaction she'd had with a lost spirit, and no one talks about werewolves or hunters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn't until they're dividing up cheesecake and pouring cups of coffee that Wilder's phone starts ringing. At first, much to Stiles' surprise, he ignores it. But, when Jeff receives a series of text messages, Wilder returns the call. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's too late for work," Margo complains. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morgana grumbles in agreement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles pats her shoulder. "Maybe they won't need you," he says, knowing that Morgana is more involved with evidence gathering and processing than questioning and collaring suspects. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Goddess, I hope not," she agrees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They watch as Wilder's eyes widen and then quickly narrow; Stiles doesn't like the way Wilder immediately searches for Stiles, still listening to the voice in his ear. His brow furrows and then he says something that sounds like </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stilinski has been in the presence of multiple witnesses all day, myself included</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Stiles' heart rate picks up in speed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something happened. And he's a suspect. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jeff brings his tablet to Wilder, and his dark face dips down to look at its screen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"C'mon," Morgana urges. She nudges him towards the pair of men. "Let's figure out what's going on." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The suspect appears to be female," Wilder says, as he catches sight of their approach. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head; Morgana and Stiles stop walking. Mira joins Wilder, and she plucks the tablet out of his hand. Stiles watches her face as she swipes through whatever Wilder had been sent. At first, he sees surprise, but he catches glimpses of sadness and anger, too. He isn't sure what to think. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surely, if something happened to John or Feliks, someone would just tell him. They're family. It has to be someone else, and his first instinct, before Scott or Jackson or anyone else, is Derek; his fear is sharp and strong at the thought of Derek being hurt—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The forest is quiet, but it isn't mute or still. He is sitting on the porch, a mug of tea in his hands, and he looks from it to scan the immediate territory. There are no loud voices; there are no raucous gatherings in the house. If he concentrates, he can hear Malia and Cora in the living room. Peter left a few minutes ago, saying something about catching up with an old friend (but he isn't an idiot and he knows that's not what Peter is doing). Liam is out with Erica, and he isn't sure if he wants either of them to return. He isn't sure if he wants any of them to return. Something is wrong and he can't</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles sucks in a quick, deep breath as his vision comes back to himself. If what he saw is to be believed, Derek is fine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His phone buzzes in his pocket. When he looks at the screen, he sees a text from Derek. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Was that you?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He quickly writes back: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, sorry. I got freaked out and worried about you. It just happened. No clue why. Power up or nemeton link? I'll work on it. Sorry.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek's reply is quick, too. When Stiles reads </span>
  <em>
    <span>It's okay. Breathe. Text me if you need to, ok?, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he takes another deep breath at a slower speed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilder ends the call and seems surprised to find himself surrounded by everyone. Magnus, Alec, Liam, Eliot, and Margo have all moved towards the smaller group. Clary is watching them all as she pours different sweet sauces over the pieces of cheesecake. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Let's go sit at the table," Wilder suggests. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is this about the hunters?" Stiles asks. "Did they get out? Make bail?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They're out of state already," Jeff says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What about Deaton?" Magnus asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Listening to Wilder, Morgana guides Stiles back to the dining table. Everyone else follows them, except for Jeff and Liam who go to help Clary bring dessert and coffee; when they're all settled, Wilder passes his tablet to Stiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Press play." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods and watches the video start as he presses the white triangle in the middle of the picture. It seems to be a security video from inside a police transport vehicle. Deaton is sitting there, handcuffed and secured to the bench; one of the deputies is sitting next to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's being taken to county jail?" Stiles asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Just watch," Wilder advises. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The video jolts. When the frame stills, Stiles can see that the road, trees, and buildings have stopped passing by the windows. The van has been stopped. The deputy—someone Stiles doesn't recognise—stands up and puts his hand on his weapon. Deaton twitches; Stiles expects the worst, in a variety of combinations. He doesn't want to watch Deaton hurt one of John's deputies; he doesn't want to watch Deaton escape. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Neither fear comes to being. The door opens from the outside and the deputy ends up getting tased from a distance. He stops, shakes, and falls. Deaton's eyes widen as he looks towards the light made by the doors being open. He jumps as if he, too, is shocked; when he slumps, Stiles can see the telltale signs of a bullet wound in his head, both on the body and on the walls of the prisoner transport vehicle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The video ends. Stiles swipes to the next piece of visual evidence. He sees the shooting from another perspective; the woman's posture is strong and unwavering as she raises her weapon and fires at Deaton. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Who…" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Next one, there's a still," Wilder tells him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods and swipes to see a woman wearing dark sunglasses to cover her eyes and a medical mask to cover her mouth and nose. He can't see her face. Her hair is almost-white blond, so he doesn't think it's Marin Morrell—but he wouldn't find it surprising if she were wearing a wig. She wouldn't kill her brother, though; she'd aligned herself with Deucalion, so Deaton's darkness wouldn't bother her. Because of the possibilities provided by dyes and wigs, he knows it could be anyone, really. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, yet… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The more he looks at the photo, the more he's sure he knows who it is. By the slope of her shoulders and the rhythm of her gait, he knows it's not Lydia. Malia would have gone after him in her coyote form, if she'd been so inclined. Cora is shorter. Melissa would never shoot Deaton, no matter what. Morgana is too tall. Neither Morgana nor Mira would have needed to wait for Deaton to be in transit; they both have access to information like where he's located or being held. And Margo would never have been caught on camera—especially in such a plain, utilitarian outfit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something about her is </span>
  <em>
    <span>so familiar, </span>
  </em>
  <span>though</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He just can't remember who she is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know who she is," Stiles says. "I don't think, anyway. Hard to tell with the mask and glasses." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, and she took the mask with her, so we can't get identifying DNA from it," Jeff says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Or try to track her, magically," Liam adds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magnus shrugs. "Are you really going to work hard to find the guy who sacrificed at least a hundred lives to build power at the nemeton?" he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Levelling a serious look in Magnus' direction, Wilder says, "We're the only ones who know that. Us and the pack." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And the hunters," Stiles adds. "They might've done it as revenge." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilder tilts his head, as if considering that. After a moment of thought, he nods. "That's true. I assumed it would be someone looking to even the score, but you're right, and that could happen from the hunters' side, too," he concedes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm not going to lose any sleep over that," Margo admits. "Alive, that little bitch was a danger to Stiles, to the Hale puppies, and to us. I'm going to sleep just fine tonight." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eliot smirks. "I think I'll throw a party."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oooh, yes," Margo agrees. "I have the perfect outfit." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm not sad, either, but I don't think I'm ready for a 'ding, dog, the witch is dead' celebration," Stiles admits.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if he knows Stiles begins thinking about what part Deaton could have played in the death of his mother, along with so many other deaths, Caolán nods and watches him with solemn eyes as he puts his hand on Stiles' shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We'll figure it out," Caolán tells him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. "I won't be heartbroken if we don't," he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Jeff opens his mouth, likely to remind everyone that someone killed Deaton and a crime has been committed, Clary reaches out and puts her hand over Jeff's mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It doesn't matter. Not tonight. Tonight, Stiles is… well. He's Stiles. He's back. We're together again," she says. "Let's just celebrate that, for now, okay?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jeff nods and smiles when Clary takes away her hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Between Caolán and Magnus, Stiles settles back in his chair. He, too, wants to know who killed Deaton. He believes justice has been served—because no mundane system could balance the scales to rectify all the destruction Deaton allowed and caused—but he is curious to know who else is invested in the actions of the former emissary. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It will have to wait, though. He and his family are safe, he is with his friends, and he has a new bond to the nemeton to process. A little celebration before diving back into (danger and) mystery won't be the end of the world. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The end… for now!</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Guys... wow. I never expected so much engagement or support while posting this story. When I started writing this, I thought "I'm being too mean, no one knows who some of these characters are, what the hell am I doing?" and I decided to keep it to myself until I thought it was ready to start posting. And you guys just... wow. You encouraged, you kicked my brain into gear on a few sticky spots during proofing, and you've given me so much to think about that I'm pretty sure I have enough for two sequels. Thank you for sticking with this story and for commenting when you can. It made my day, every day I posted a chapter. </p>
<p>I'm only on the third chapter (out of seventeen, I think) of the next story, but I'm hoping I'll be able to do more now that I'm not editing/proofing as much. I'll probably wait until it's all written before I start posting (because I can psych myself out mid-story, and I don't want that to happen here, leaving you guys hanging after five or six chapters), but if you ever want to check in or talk, you can find me on twitter and tumblr with the same username---or you can just send me a comment here. </p>
<p>Thank you again for reading this story &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>